

*^T* A. 






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LITTLE JOURNEYS 
TO THE HOMES OF 
EMINENT ARTISTS 



BY 

ELBERT HUBBARD 



RAPHAEL . LEONARDO DA VINCI 

BOTTICELLI . THORWALDSEN 

GAINSBOROUGH'. VELASQUEZ 

CORREGGIO . BELLINI 

COROT . CELLINI 

WHISTLER 



G. P. 


PUTNAM^S SONS 


NEW 


YORK AND LONDON 


XTbe 1kntcf?erbocF?et press | 




1907 



Two Copies Received 

NOV 25 !90? 

Copyri^rii Lntry 
I GLASS CL XXc. No, 









Copyright, 1907 

BY 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 



tSbc ftnfcfterbocfiev press* flew Jffork 





iii 


CONTENTS 




PAGE 


Contents 


Raphael ...... i 




Leonardo da Vinci . 






39 




Botticelli 






75 




Thorwaldsen . 






119 




Thomas Gainsborough 






167 




Velasquez 






203 




Corot 






248 




CORREGGIO 






293 




Giovanni Bellini 






333 




Benvenuto Cellini . 






367 




James MacNeill Whistler 




409 





ILLUSTRATIONS 



JAMES MACNEILL WHISTLER Frontispiece 
From the photograph by Elliott & Fry, 
London. Reproduced by permission. 

RAPHAEL 6 

From the engraving by J. Thomson, after 
the original picture at Florence. 

LEONARDO DA VINCI .... 44 
From the engraving by J. Posselwhite, 
after the painting by Leonardo da Vinci. 

BOTTICELLI 80 

From a copper print by Colombini. 

THORWALDSEN 124 

From the engraving by Gust. Zumpe. 

THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH . . .172 

From a copper print, after the portrait by him- 
self. 

VELASQUEZ 208 

After the engraving by H. Adlard. 

COROT 254 

From the engraving by L. Massard. 



miustras 
ttons 



VI 



Illustrations 



tions 



CORREGGIO . . .' . . , . 

From the engraving by H. Meyer, after 
the painting by Correggio. 

GIOVANNI BELLINI .... 
From an engraving by Colombini. 

BENVENUTO CELLINI . . . . 

After the engraving by Piotti-Pirola. 



PAGE 

2q8 



338 



372 



RAPHAEL 



And with all this vast creative activity, he re- 
cognised only one self-imposed limitation, — beauty. 
Hence, though his span of life was short, his work 
is imperishable. He steadily progressed: but he 
was ever true, beautiful, and pure, and freer than 
any other master from superficiality and mannerism. 
He produced a vast number of pictures, elevating 
to men of every race and of every age, and before 
whose immortal beauty artists of every school unite 
in common homage. 



:eeauts 



"WiLHELM LUBKE. 



THE term "Pre-Raphaelite" traces 
a royal lineage to William Morris. 
Just what the word really meant, William 
Morris was not sure, yet he once expressed 
the hope that he would some day know, 
as a thousand industrious writers were 
labouring to make the matter plain. 

Seven men helped William Morris to 
launch the phrase by forming themselves 
into an organisation which they were 
pleased to call the " Pre-Raphaelite 
Brotherhood." 

The word "brotherhood" has a lure 
and a promise for every lonely and tired 
son of earth. And Bume- Jones pleaded 
for the prefix because it was like Holy 
Writ : it gave everybody an opportunity to 
read anything into it that he desired. 

Of this I am very sure, in the Pre- 



B>res1Raa 
pbaelftes 



Xtttle Journeys 



ff>res1Ras 
pbaelites 



Raphaelite Brotherhood there was no 
lack of appreciation for Raphael. In 
fact, there is proof positive that Burne- 
Jones and Madox Brown studied him with 
profit, and loved him so wisely and well 
that they laid impression paper on his 
poses. This would have been good and 
sufficient reason for hating the man; and 
possibly this accounts for their luminous 
flashes of silence concerning him. 

The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, like 
all liberal organisations, was quite in- 
clined to be illiberal. And the prejudice 
of this clanship, avowedly founded without 
prejudice, lay in the assumption that life 
and art suffered a degeneration from the 
rise of Raphael. In art, as in literature, 
there is overmuch tilting with names, — 
so the Pre-Raphaelites enlisted under 
the banner of Botticelli. 

Raphael marks an epoch. He did what 
no man before him had ever done, and by 
the sublimity of his genius he placed the 
world forever under obligations to him. 
In fact, the art of the Pre-Raphaelites 
was built on Raphael, with an attempt 
to revive the atmosphere and environment 
that belongs to another. Raphael mir- 



iRapbael 



rored the soul of things — he used the 
human form and the whole natural world 
as symbols of spirit. And this is exactly 
what Bume- Jones did, and the rest of 
the brotherhood tried to do. The thought 
of Raphael and that of Bume- Jones often 
seem identical ; in temperament, disposition, 
and 'aspiration they were one. That poetic 
and fervid statement of Mrs. Jameson, that 
Bume- Jones is the avatar of Raphael, 
contains the germ of truth. The dream- 
women of Bume- Jones have the same 
haunting and subtle spiritual wist fulness 
that is to be seen in the Madonnas of 
Raphael. Each of these men loved a 
woman — and each pictured her again 
and again. Whether this woman had 
an existence outside the figment of the 
brain, matters not — both painted her as 
they saw her — ^tender, gentle, and trustful. 
When jealous and o'er zealous com- 
petitors made the charge against Raphael 
that he was lax in his religious duties. 
Pope Leo X. waived the matter by saying, 
" Well, well, well! — he is an artistic Christ- 
ian!" As much as to say, he works his 
religion up into art, and therefore we 
grant him absolution for failure to attend 



IRapbael 

andilBucnes: 

Jones 



Xittle Sonvnc^s 



Cbargeg of 
^aoanism 



mass ; he paints and you pray — it is really 
all the same thing. Good work and re- 
ligion are one. 

The busy and captious critics went 
away, but came back next day with the 
startling information that Raphael's 
pictures were more pagan than Christian. 
Pope Leo heard the charge, and then with 
Lincoln-like wit said that Raphael was 
doing this on his order, as the desire of 
the Mother Church was to annex the 
pagan art- world, in order to Christianise 
it. 

The charges of paganism and infidelity 
are classic accusations. The gentle Burne- 
Jones was stoutly denounced by his 
enemies as a pagan Greek. I think he 
rather gloried in the contumely, but fifty 
years earlier he might have been visited 
by a lettre de cachet instead of a knighthood ; 
for we cannot forget how, in 1815, Parli- 
ament refused to pay for the Elgin Marbles 
because, as Lord Falmouth put it, " These 
relics will tend to prostitute England to 
the depth of unbelief that engulfed pagan 
Greece." The attitude of Parliament on 
the question of paganism finds voice 
occasionally even yet by Protestant Eng- 



IRapbael 



land making darkness dense with the 
asseveration that Catholics idolatrously 
worship the pictures and statues in their 
churches. 

The Romans tumbled the Athenian 
marbles from their pedestals on the as- 
sumption that the statues represented 
gods that were idolatrously worshipped 
by the Greeks. And they continued their 
work of destruction until a certain Roman 
general (who surely was from County 
Cork) stopped the vandalism by issuing 
an order, coupled with the dire threat that 
any soldier who stole or destroyed a 
statue should replace it by another equally 
good. 

Lord Elgin bankrupted himself in order 
to supply the British Museum its crowning 
glory, and for this he achieved the honour 
of getting himself poetically damned by 
Lord Byron. Monarchies, like republics, 
are ungrateful. Lord Elgin defended him- 
self vigorously against the charge of 
paganism, just as Raphael had done three 
hundred years before. But Burne- Jones 
was silent in the presence of his accusers, 
for the world of buyers besieged his doors 
with bank notes in hand, demanding 



X.orb TSlQin 



lO 



Xtttle Sourness 



TKarft in 
"OClatcr 



pictures. And now to-day we find Alma- 
Tadema openly and avowedly pagan, and 
with a grace and loveliness that compel 
the glad acclaim of every lover of beautiful 
things. 

We are making head. We have ceased 
to believe that paganism was "bad." 
All the men and women who have ever 
lived and loved and hoped and died, were 
God's children, and we are no more. 
With the nations dead and turned to 
dust, we reach out through the darkness 
of forgotten days and touch friendly 
hands. Some of these people that existed 
two, three, or four thousand years ago, 
did things so marvellously grand and great 
that in presence of the broken fragments 
of their work we stand silent, o'er-awed, 
and abashed. We realise, too, that long 
before the nations lived that have left a 
meagre ^ anH scattered history hewn in 
stone, lived still other men, possibly 
greater far than we; and no sign or signal 
comes to us from these whose history, 
like ours, is writ in water. 

Yet we are one with them all. The 
same Power that brought them upon this 
stage of time, brought us. As we were 



IRapbael 



II 



called into existence without our consent, 
so are we being sent out of it, day by day 
against our will. The destiny of all who 
live or have lived, is one; and no taunt 
of "paganism," ''heathenism," or "in- 
fidelity" escapes our lips. With love 
and sympathy we salute the eternity that 
lies behind, realising that we ourselves 
are the oldest people that have tasted 
existence — the newest nation lingers away 
back there behind Egypt and Assyria, 
back of the Mayas, lost in continents 
sunken in shoreless seas that hold their 
secrets inviolate. Yes, we are brothers 
to all that have trod the earth; brothers, 
and heirs to dust and shade — mayhap 
to immortality! 



TKne ace 
IBcotbers 



II 



TKHorft for 
Xovc of It 



TN the story of "John Ball/' William 
A Morris pictured what to him was the 

Ideal Life. And Morris was certainly 
right in this: The Ideal Life is only the 
normal or natural life as we shall some day 
know it. The scene of Morris's story was 
essentially a Pre-Raphaelite one. It was 
the great virtue (or limitation) of William 
Morris that the Dark Ages were to him a 
time of special light and illumination. 
Life then was simple. Men worked for 
the love of it, and if they wanted things, 
they made them. " Every trade exclus- 
ively followed means a deformity," says 
Ruskin. Division of labor had not yet 
come, and men were skilled in many ways. 
There was neither poverty nor riches, 
and the idea of brotherhood was firmly 
fixed in the minds of men. The feverish 



IRapbael 



13 



desire for place, pelf, and power was not 
upon them. The rise of the barons and 
an entailed aristocracy was yet to come. 

Governments grant men immunity from 
danger on payment of a tax. Thus men 
cease protecting themselves, and so in the 
course of time lose the ability to protect 
themselves, because the faculty of courage 
has atrophied through disuse. Brooding 
apprehension and crouching fear are the 
properties of civilised men — men who 
are protected by the State. The joy of 
revelling in life is not possible in cities. 
Bolts and bars, locks and keys, soldiers 
and police, and a hundred other symbols 
of distrust, suspicion, and hate, are on 
every hand, reminding us that man is 
the enemy of man, and must be protected 
from his brothers. Protection and slavery 
are near of kin. 

Before Raphael, art was not a profession 
— ^the man did things to the glory of God. 
When he painted a picture of the Holy 
Family, his wife served as his model, and 
he grouped his children in their proper 
order, and made the picture to hang on a 
certain spot on the walls of his village 
church. No payment was expected nor 



protection 

anb 

Slavers 



14 



Xtttle Sourness 



Erpresafon 

of /iftan's 

30^2 



fee demanded — it was a love offering. 
It was not until ecclesiastics grew am- 
bitious and asked for more pictures that 
bargains were struck. Did ever a painter 
of that far-off day marry a maid, and in 
time were they blessed with a babe, then 
straightway the painter worked his joy 
up into art by painting the " Mother and 
Child," and presenting the picture as a 
thank-offering to God. The immaculate 
conception of love and the miracle of birth 
are recurring themes in the symphony 
of life. Love, religion, and art have ever 
walked and ever will walk hand in hand. 
Art is the expression of man's joy in his 
work; and art is the beautiful way of 
doing things. Do you remember the 
woman mentioned by Theodore Parker 
who swept the room to the glory of God? 
Pope Julius . was right — work is religion 
when you put soul into your task. 

Giotto painted the " Mother and Child," 
and the mother was his wife, and the 
child theirs. Another child came to them 
and Giotto painted another picture, calling 
the older boy St. John, and the wee baby 
Jesus. The years went by, and we find 
still another picture of the Holy Family 



IRapbael 



15 



by this same artist, in which five children 
are shown, while back in the shadow is 
the artist himself, posed as Joseph. And 
with a beautiful contempt for anachronism, 
the elder children are called Isaiah, Ezekiel, 
and Elijah. This fusing of work, do- 
mesticity, love, and religion gives us a 
glimpse into the only paradise that mortals 
know. It is the Ideal — and the Natural. 



Ube ll&eal 
an& tbe 
matucal 



i6 



III 



H Sleepy 
Uittle Cits 



THE swift passing years have lightly 
touched the little city of Urbino, in 
Umbria. The place is sleepy and quiet, 
and you seek the shade of friendly awnings 
to shield you from the fierce glare of the 
sun. Standing there you hear the bells 
chime the hours, just as they have done 
for four hundred years; and you watch 
the flocks of wheeling pigeons, the same 
pigeons that Vasari saw when he came 
here in 1541, for the birds never grow old. 
Vasari tells of the pigeons, the old ca- 
thedral — old even then — ^the flower girls 
and fruit sellers, the passing black-robed 
priests, the occasional soldier, and the 
cobbler who sits on the curb stone, and 
offers to mend your shoes while you wait. 
The world is debtor to Vasari. He was 
not much of a painter and he failed at 



IRapbael 



17 



architecture, but he made up for lack of 
skill by telling all about what others were 
doing; and if his facts ever faltered, his 
imagination bridged the break. He is 
as interesting as Plutarch, as gossipy as 
Pepys, and as luring as Bos well. 

A slim slip of a girl selling thyme and 
mignonette out of a reed basket, offered 
to show Vasari the birthplace of Raphael; 
and a brown-cheeked, barefoot boy selling 
roses on which the dew yet lingered, 
volunteered a like service for me, three 
hundred years later. 

The house is one of a long row of low 
stone structures, with the red tile roof, 
everywhere to be seen. Above the door 
is a bronze tablet which informs the 
traveller that Raphael Sanzio was bom 
here April 6, 1483. Herman Grimm 
takes three chapters to prove that Raphael 
was not bom in this house, and that 
nothing is so unreliable as a bronze tablet, 
excepting figures. Grimm is a pains- 
taking biographer, but he fails to dis- 
tinguish between fact and truth. Of 
this we are sure, Giovanni di Sanzio, the 
father of Raphael, lived in this house. 
There are church records to show that 



ffiirtbplace 



i8 



%ittlc 3ourneps 



2)aies 



here other children of Giovanni were bom, 
and this very naturally led to the assump- 
tion that Raphael was born here, also. 
Just one thing of touching interest is 
to be seen in this house, and that is a 
picture painted on the wall, of a " Mother 
and Child." For many years this picture 
was said to be the work of Raphael; but 
there is now very good reason to believe 
it was the work of Raphael's father, and 
that the figures represent the baby Ra- 
phael and his mother. The picture is 
faded and dim, like the history of this 
sainted woman, who gave to earth one 
of the gentlest, greatest, and best men 
that ever lived. Mystery enshrouds the 
early days of Raphael. There is no 
record of his birth. His father we know 
was a man of decided power, and might 
even rank as a great artist, had he not 
been so unfortunate as to have had a son 
who outclassed him. But now Giovanni 
Sanzio's only claim to fame rests on his 
being the father of his son. Of the boy's 
mother we have only obstructed glances 
and glimpses through half flung lattices 
in the gloaming. Raphael was her only 
child. She was scarce twenty when she 



IRapbael 19 



bore him. In a sonnet written to her, "B^apbaei's 
■111 r • • T-. 1 it flDotber 

on the back of a painting, Raphael s 

father speaks of her wondrous eyes, slender 

neck, and the form too frail for earth's 

rough buffets. Mention is also made of 

''this child bom in purest love, and sent 

by God to comfort and caress." 

The mother grew a-weary and passed 
away when her boy was scarce eight years 
old, but his memories of her were deeply 
etched. She told him of Cimabue, Giotto, 
Ghirlandajo, Leonardo, and Perugino, and 
especially of the last two, who were living 
and working only a few miles away. It 
was this spiritual and loving mother who 
infused into his soul the desire to do and 
to become. That hunger for harmony 
which marked his life was the heritage 
of mother to child. 

When an artist paints a portrait, he 
paints two — himself and the sitter. Ra- 
phael gave himself ; and as his father more 
than once said, the boy was the image of 
his mother — we have her picture, too. 
Father and son painted the same woman. 
Their hearts went out to her with a sort 
of idolatrous love. The sonnets indited 
to her by her husband were written after 



3Little Sourneigs 



of a (Breat 
Xove 



her death, and after his second marriage. 
Do men love dead women better than 
they do the Hving? Perhaps.. And then 
a certain writer has said, " To have known 
a great and exalted love, and have it flee 
from your grasp, and flee as a shadow 
before it is sullied by selfishness or mis- 
understanding, is the highest good. - The 
memory of such a love cannot die from 
out the heart. It affords a ballast 'gainst 
all the sordid impulses of life, and though 
it gives an unutterable sadness, it imparts 
an unspeakable peace." 



21 



IV 

RAPHAEL'S father followed the boy's tRapbaer. 
mother when the lad was eleven ^^^^^^ 
years old. We know the tender, poetic 
love this father had for the child, and we 
realise somewhat of the mystical mingling 
in the man's heart of the love for the 
woman dead and her child alive. 

Reverencing the mother's wish that 
the boy should be an artist, Giovanni 
Sanzio, proud of his delicate and spiritual 
beauty, took the lad to visit all the other 
artists in the vicinity. They also visited 
the ducal palace, built by Federigo II., 
and lingered there for hours, viewing the 
paintings, statuary, carvings, tapestries, 
and panellings. 

This palace still stands, and is yet one 
of the most noble in Italy, vying in pic- 
turesqueness with those marble piles that 



Xtttle Sourness 



llntbe 

Care of 

ffiartolomeo 



line the Grand Canal at Venice. We 
know that Giovanni Sanzio contributed 
by his advice and skill to the wealth of 
beauty in the palace, and we know that he 
was always a welcome visitor there. 

From his boyhood Raphael was familiar 
with these artistic splendours, and how 
much this early environment contributed 
to his correct taste and habit of subdued 
elegance, no man can say. When Gio- 
vanni Sanzio realised that death was at 
his door, he gave Raphael into the keeping 
of the priest Bartolomeo and the boy's 
stepmother. The typical stepmother lives, 
moves, and has her being in neurotic 
novels written by very young ladies. 
Instances can be cited of great men who 
were loved and nurtured and ministered 
to by their stepmothers. I think well 
of womankind. The woman who abuses 
a waif that fate has sent into her care 
would mistreat her own children, and is 
a living libel on her sex. 

Let Lincoln and Raphael stand as types 
of men who were loved with infinite ten- 
derness by stepmothers. And then we 
must not forget Leonardo da Vinci, who 
never knew a mother, and had no business 



IRapbael 



23 



to have a father, but who held averages 
good with four successive stepmothers, 
all of whom loved him with a tender, 
jealous, and proud devotion. 

Bartolomeo, following the wish of the 
father, continued to give the boy lessons 
in drawing and sketching. This Bar- 
tolomeo must not be confused with the 
Bartolomeo, friend of Savonarola, who 
was to largely influence Raphael later 
on. It was Bartolomeo, the priest, that 
took Raphael to Perugino, who lived in 
Perugia. Perugino, although he was a 
comparatively young man, was bigger 
than the town in which he lived. His own 
name got blown away by a high wind, 
and he was plain Perugino — as if there were 
only one man in Perugia, and he were that 
one. " Here is a boy I have brought you 
as a pupil," said the priest to Perugino. 
And Perugino glancing up from his easel, 
answered, ''I thought it was a girl!" 

The priest continued: "Here is a boy 
I have brought you for a pupil, and your 
chief claim to fame may yet be that he 
worked here with you in your studio." 
Perugino parried the thrust with a smile. 
He looked at the boy and was impressed 



pupU of 
Ipetugfno 



24 



%ittlc 5ourneps 



Us ffatber 
an& Son 



with his beauty. Perugino afterwards 
acknowledged that the only reason he 
took him was because he thought he would 
work in well as a model. 

Perugino was the greatest master of tech- 
nique of his time. He had hfe, and life in 
abundance. He revelled in his work, and 
his enthusiasm ran over, inundating all 
those who were near. Courage is a matter 
of the red corpuscle. It is oxygen that 
makes every attack, and without oxygen in 
his blood to back him, a man attacks no- 
thing, — not even a pie, much less a blank can- 
vas. Perugino was a success ; he had orders 
ahead ; he matched his talent against titles ; 
power flowed his way. Raphael's serious, 
sober manner and spiritual beauty appealed 
to him. They became as father and 
son. The methodical business plan which 
is a prime aid to inspiration; the habit of 
laying out work and completing it; the 
high estimate of self; the supreme ani- 
mation and belief in the divinity within, — 
all these Raphael caught from Perugino. 
Both men were egoists, as all men are who 
do things. They had heard the voice — 
they had had a "call." The talent is the 
call, and if a man fails to do his work in a 



IRapbael 



25 



masterly way, make sure he has mistaken 
a lazy wish for a divine passion. There 
is a difference between loving the Muse and 
lusting after her. 

Perugino had been called, and before 
Raphael had worked with him a year, 
he was sure he had been called, too. The 
days in Perugia for Raphael were full of 
quiet joy and growing power. He was 
in the actual living world of men, and 
things, and useful work. Afternoons, when 
the sun's shadows began to lengthen 
towards the west, Perugino would often 
call to his helpers, especially Raphael and 
Pinturicchio, another fine spirit, and off 
they would go for a tramp, each with a 
stout staff and the inevitable portfolio. 
Out along the narrow streets of the town, 
across the Roman arched bridge, by the 
market place to the terraced hillside that 
overlooked the Umbrian plain, they went; 
Perugino stout, strong, smooth-faced, with 
dark swarthy features; Pinturicchio with 
downy beard, merry eyes, and tall, able 
form; and lingering behind, came Raphael. 
His small black cap fitted closely on his 
long bronze-gold hair; his slight, slen- 
der, and graceful figure barely suggested 



©ass of 

Jo^ an& 

Ipowei: 



26 



Xittle 3o\xvnc^3 



1Rew an^ 
Subtle 
Uoucb 



its silken strength held in fine reserve — 
and all the time the great brown eyes 
that looked as if they had seen celestial 
things, scanned the sky, saw the tall cedars 
of Lebanon, the flocks on the slopes across 
the valley, the scattered stone cottages, 
the fleecy clouds that faintly flecked the 
deep blue of the sky, the distant spire 
of a church. All these treasures of the 
Umbrian landscape were his. Well might 
he have anticipated four hundred years 
before he was bom, that greatest of 
American writers, and said, "I own the 
landscape!" 

In frescos signed by Perugino in the year 
1492 — a date we cannot forget — ^we see 
a certain style. In the same design 
duplicated in 1498, we behold a new and 
subtle touch — it is the stroke and line 
of Raphael. 

The Resurrection by Perugino, in 
the Vatican, and the Diotalevi Madonna 
signed by the sam^ artist, in the Berlin 
Museum, show the unmistakable touch of 
Raphael. The youth was barely seven- 
teen, but he was putting himself into 
Perugino's work — and Perugino was glad. 

Raphael's first independent work was 



IRapbael 



27 



probably done when he was nineteen, and 
was for the Citta di Castello. These frescos 
are signed ''Raphael Urbinas, 1502." 
Other lesser pictures and panels thus 
signed are found dated 1504. They are 
all the designs of Perugino, but worked 
out with the painstaking care always 
shown by very young artists; yet there is 
a subtle, spiritual style that marks un- 
mistakably Raphael's Perugino period. 

The Espousal, done in 1504, now in 
the Brera at Milan, is the first really im- 
portant work of Raphael. Next to this 
is the Connestabile Madonna, which was 
painted at Perugia and remained there 
until 187 1, when it was sold by a degener- 
ate descendant of the original owner to 
the Emperor of Russia for sixty-five 
thousand dollars. Since then a law has 
been passed forbidding any one on serious 
penalty to remove a "Raphael" from 
Italy. Were it not for this law, that 
threat of a Chicago syndicate to buy the 
Pitti Gallery and move its contents to the 
" lake front," might have been carried out. 



Ube 
lEspousal 



28 



wsftto n^HE second period of Raphael's life 
3fiorencc j ^^^^^ ^-^^ j^-^ ^.^.^ ^^ Florence in 

1504. He was twenty-one years of age, 
handsome, proud, reserved. Stories of his 
power had preceded him, and the fact 
that for six years he had worked with 
Perugino and been his confidant and 
friend, made his welcome sure. 

Leonardo and Michael Angelo were at 
the height of their fame, and no doubt 
t?Ley stimulated the ambition of Raphael 
more than he ever admitted. He con- 
sidered Leonardo the more finished artist 
of the two. Michael Angelo's heroic 
strength and sweep of power failed to win 
him. The frescos of Masaccio in the 
Carmine Church of Florence he considered 
better than any performance of Michael 
Angelo's; and as a Roland to this Oliver, 



IRapbael 



29 



we have a legend to the effect that Raphael 
once called upon Michael Angelo and the 
Master sent down word from the scaffold, 
where he was at work, that he was too 
busy to see visitors, and anyway, he had 
all the apprentices that he could look after ! 

How much this little incident biassed 
Raphael's opinion concerning Michael An- 
gelo's art we cannot say : possibly Raphael 
could not have told, either. But such 
things count, I am told, for even Dr. 
Johnson thought better of Reynolds's 
work after they had dined together. 

It seems that Fra Bartolomeo was 
one of the first and best friends Raphael 
had at Florence. The monk's gentle 
spirit and modest views of men and things 
won the young Umbrian; and between 
these two there sprang up a friendship 
so firm and true that death alone could 
sever it. 

The deep religious devotion of Barto- 
lomeo set the key for the first work done 
by Raphael at Florence. Most of the 
time the young man and the monk lived 
and worked in the same studio. It was 
a wonderfully prolific period for Raphael; 
from 1504 and 1508 he pushed forward 



a. 3ffrm 
3fd6n6sb(p 



30 



Xittle 5ournep0 



jflorentfne 
XKaorh 



with a zest and earnestness he never again 
quite equalled. Most of his beautiful 
Madonnas belong to this period, and in 
them all are a dignity, grace, and grandeur 
that lift them out of ecclesiastic art, and 
place them in the category of living 
portraits. 

Before this, Raphael belonged to the 
Umbrian School, but now his work must 
be classed, if classed at all, as Florentine. 
The handling is freer, the nude is more in 
evidence, and correct anatomy shows that 
the artist is working from life. 

Bartolomeo used to speak of Raphael 
affectionately as ''my son," and called 
the attention of Bramante, the architect, 
to his work. The beauty of his Madonnas 
was being discussed in every studio, and 
when the Ansidei was exhibited in the 
church of Santa Croce, such a crowd flocked 
to see the picture that services had to be 
dismissed. This rush continued until a 
thrifty priest bethought him to stand at 
the main entrance with a contribution 
box and stout stick, and allow no one to 
enter who did not contribute good silver 
for "the worthy poor." Bartolomeo ac- 
knowledged that his "pupil" was beyond 



IRapbael 



31 



him; Masaccio invited him to add a 
finishing touch to his frescos so that he 
might say, " Raphael approves " ; Leonardo, 
the courtly, had smiled a gracious recog- 
nition, and Michael Angelo had sneezed 
at mention of his name. Bramante, back 
at Rome, after a visit to Florence, told 
Pope Julius 11. , ''There is a young Um- 
brian at Florence we must send for." 



/IDucb 
Sought 
Bfter 



32 



Ut tdomc 



VI 



GREAT things were happening at Rome 
about this time: all roads led 
thitherward. Pope Julius had just laid 
the comer- stone of St. Peter's, and full 
of ambition was carrying out the dictum 
of Pope Nicholas V., that "the Church 
should array herself in all the beauteous 
spoils of the world, in order to win the 
minds of men." 

The Renaissance was fairly begun, 
fostered and sustained by the Church 
alone. The Quattrocento — that time of 
homely peace and the simple quiet of John 
Ball and his fellows — ^lay behind. Raphael 
had begun his Roman period, which was 
to round out his working life of barely 
eighteen years, ere the rest of the Pantheon 
was to be his. Before this his time had 
been his own, but now the Church was 



ri 



IRapbael 



33 



his mistress. But it was a great honour 
that had come to him, greater far than 
had ever been bestowed on any living 
artist. Barely twenty-five years of age, 
the Pope treated him as an equal, and 
worked him like a pack-horse. '' He has 
the face of an angel," cried Julius, ''and 
the soul of a god!" — when some one sug- 
gested his youth. 

Pope Leo X., of the Medici family, suc- 
ceeded Julius. He sent Michael Angelo 
to Florence to employ his talents upon the 
Medicean Church of San Lorenzo. He 
dismissed Perugino, Pinturicchio, and Piero 
Delia Francesca, although Raphael in tears 
pleaded for them all. Their frescos were 
destroyed and Raphael was told to go 
ahead and make the Vatican what it should 
be. His first large work was to decorate 
the Hall of the Signatures (Stanza della 
Segnatura), where we to-day see the 
Dispute. Near at hand is the famous 
School of Athens. In this picture his 
own famous portrait is to be seen with 
that of Perugino. The first place is given 
to Perugino, and the faces affectionately 
side by side are posed in a way that has 
given a cue to ten thousand photographers. 



TKHorfe 
intbe 
Vatican 



34 



Xtttle Sourneigs 



•Kapbael 

Uapestcies 



The attitude is especially valuable, as 
a bit of history showing Raphael's sterling 
attachment to his old teacher. The Vati- 
can is filled with the work of Raphael, 
and aside from the galleries to which the 
general public is admitted, studies and 
frescos are to be seen in many rooms that 
are closed unless, say. Archbishop Ireland 
be with you, when all doors fly open at 
your touch. 

The seven Raphael tapestries are shown 
at the Vatician an hour each day ; the rest 
of the time the room is closed to protect 
them from the light. However, the origi- 
nal cartoons at South Kensington reveal 
the sweep and scope of Raphael's genius 
better than the tapestries themselves. 

Work, unceasing work, filled his days. 
The ingenuity and industry of the man 
were marvellous. Upwards of eighty por- 
traits were painted during the Roman 
period, besides designs innumerable for 
engravings, and even for silver and iron 
ornaments required by the Church. Pupils 
helped him much, of course, and among 
these must be mentioned Giulio Romano 
and Gianfrancesco Penni. These young men 
lived with Raphael in his splendid house 



IRapbael 



35 



that stood half way between St. Peter's 
and the Castle Angelo. Fire swept the 
space a hundred years later, and the 
magnificence it once knew has never 
been replaced. To-day, hovels built from 
stone quarried from the ruins, mark the 
spot. But as one follows this white, 
dusty road, it is well to remember that the 
feet of Raphael, passing and repassing, 
have made it more than any other one 
of Rome, sacred soil. 

We have seen that Bramante brought 
Raphael to Rome, and Pope Leo X. re- 
membered this when the first architect 
of St. Peter's passed away. Raphael was 
appointed his successor. The honour was 
merited, but the place should have gone 
to one not already over- worked. 

In 15 15, Raphael was made Director 
of Excavations, another office for which 
his esthetic and delicate nature was not 
fitted. In sympathy, of course, his heart 
went out to the antique workers of the 
ancient world, on whose ruins the Eternal 
City is built; but the drudgery of over- 
seeing and superintendence belonged to 
another type of man. 

The stress of the times had told on 



flDedte^ 
Tbonours 



Xittle Sourneigs 



Xove*s 
S>xeam 



Raphael; he was thirty- five, rich beyond 
all Umbrian dreams of avarice, on an 
equality with the greatest and noblest men 
of his time, honoured above all living- 
artists; but life began to pall. He had 
won all — and thereby had learned the 
worthlessness of what the world has to 
offer. Rest, and dreams of love and a 
quiet country home came to him. He 
was betrothed to Maria di Bibbiena, a 
niece of Cardinal Bibbiena. The day of 
the wedding had been set, and the Pope 
was to perform the ceremony. 

But the Pope regarded Raphael as a 
servant of the Church — ^he had work for 
him to do — and moreover he had fixed 
ideas concerning the glamour of sentiment- 
alism, so he requested that the wedding 
be postponed for a space. 

A request from the Pope was an order, 
and so the country house was packed 
away with other dreams, that were to 
come true all in God's good time. 

But the realisation of love's dream 
did not come true, for Raphael had a rival. 
Death claimed his bride. 

She was buried in the Pantheon, where 
within a year Raphael's worn-out body 



IRapbael 



37 



was placed beside hers; and there the 
dust of both mingle. 

The history of this love tragedy has never 
been written ; it lies buried there with the 
lovers. But a contemporary said, that 
the fear of an enforced separation broke 
the young woman's heart; and this we 
know, that after her death, Raphael's 
hand forgot its cunning, and his frame was 
ripe for the fever that so soon burned 
out the strands of his life. 

Michael Angelo, Leonardo da Vinci, 
Perugino, and Fra Bartolomeo had made 
names for themselves before Raphael ap- 
peared upon the scene. Yet they all 
profited by his example, and were the 
richer in that he had lived. 

Michael Angelo was bom nine years be- 
fore Raphael and survived him forty-three 
years. Titian was six years old when 
Raphael was bom, and he continued to 
live and work for fifty-six years after 
Raphael had passed away. 

It was a cause of grief to the day of his 
death to Michael Angelo, that he and 
Raphael had not been close, personal, and 
loving friends, as they should have been. 
The art world was big enough for both. 



darecc 
Cut Sbort 



38 



^ 



Xittle 5outneps 



jfareweus Yet Rome was divided into two hostile 
camps — those who favoured Raphael and 
those who had but one prophet, Michael 
Angelo. Busybodies rushed back and 
forth carrying foolish messages ; and these 
strong yet gentle men, both hungering 
for sympathy and love were thrust apart. 
When Raphael realised the end was 
nigh, he sent for Perugino, and directed 
that he should complete certain work. 
His career had begun by working with 
Perugino, and now this friend of a life- 
time must finish the broken task and make 
good the whole. He bade his beloved 
pupils one by one farewell, signed his will 
which gave most of his valuable property 
to his fellow- workers, and commended his 
soul to the God who gave it. He died on 
his birthday. Good Friday, April 6, 1520, 
aged thirty-seven years. 

Michael Angelo wore mourning upon 
his sleeve for a year after Raphael's death. 
Once he said: "Raphael was a child, a 
beautiful child, and if he had only lived 
a little longer, he and I would have grasped 
hands as men and worked together as 
brothers." 



LEONARDO DA VINCI 



39 



41 



The world, perhaps, contains no other example 
of a genius so universal as Leonardo's, so creative, 
so incapable of self -contentment, so athirst for 
the infinite, so naturally refined, so far in advance 
of his own and subsequent ages. His pictures 
express incredible sensibility and mental power; 
they overflow with unexpressed ideas and emotions. 
Alongside of his portraits Michael Angelo's per- 
sonages are simply heroic athletes; Raphael's 
virgins are only placid children whose souls are 
still asleep. His beings feel and think through 
every line and trait of their physiognomy. Time 
is necessary to enter into communion with them; 
not that their sentiment is too slightly marked, for, 
on the contrary, it emerges from the whole in- 
vestiture; but it is too subtle, too complicated, too 
far above and beyond the ordinary, too dream-like 
and inexplicable. 

Taine in A Journey through Italy. 



sal (3enfus 



43 



THERE is a little book by George B. 
Rose, entitled Renaissance Mas- 
ters, which is quite worth your while 
to read. I carried a copy, for company, 
in the side pocket of my coat for a week, 
and just peeped into it at odd times. I 
remember that I thought so little of the 
volume that I read it with a lead pencil 
and marked it all up and down and over, 
and filled the fly leaves with random 
thoughts and disfigured the margins with 
a few foolish sketches. 

Then one fine day White Pigeon came 
out to the Roycroft Shop from Buffalo, 
as she was passing through. She came 
on the two o'clock train and went away 
on the four o'clock, and her visit was 
like a window flung open to the azure. 

White Pigeon remained at East Aurora 



•Kenaiss 
sance 
Masters 



44 



^Little Journeys 



Ubc aittle 

38och 



only two hours, — "not long enough," 
she said, "to knock the gold and emerald 
off the butterfly's beautiful wings." 

White Pigeon saw the little book I have 
mentioned, on my table in the tower- 
room. She picked it up and turned the 
leaves aimlessly; then she opened her 
Boston bag and slipped the book inside, 
saying as she did so, " You do not mind?" 
And I said, "Certainly not." 

Then she added " I like to follow in the 
pathway you have blazed." 

That closed the matter so far as the 
little book was concerned. Save, perhaps, 
that after I had walked to the station with 
White Pigeon and she had boarded the 
car, she stepped out upon the rear plat- 
form, and as I stood there at the station 
watching the train disappear around the 
curve. White Pigeon reached into the 
Boston bag, took out the little book and 
held it up. 

That was the last time I saw White 
Pigeon. She was looking well and strong, 
and her step, I noticed, was firm and sure, 
and she carried the crown of her head high 
and her chin in. It made me carry my 
chin in, too, just by force of example. 



Xeonatbo ba Vinci 45 



I suppose, — so easily are we influenced. 'ccibfte 
When you walk with some folks you 
slouch along, but others there be who 
make you feel an upward lift and a skyey 
gravitation — ^it is very curious! 

Yet I do really believe White Pigeon 
is forty, or awfully close to it. There are 
silver streaks among her brown braids 
and surely the peach-blow has long gone 
from her cheek. Then she was awfully 
tanned — and that little mole on her fore- 
head, and its mate on her chin, stand out 
more than ever, like the freckles on the 
face of Alcibiades Roycroft when he has 
taken on his August russet. 

I think White Pigeon must be near 
forty ! That is the second book she has 
stolen from me; the other was Max 
Miiller's Memories, — ^it was at the Louvre 
in Paris, August 14, 1895, as we sat on 
a bench, silent before the Mona Lisa 
of Leonardo. 

This book, Renaissance Masters, I 
did n't care much for, anyway. I got no 
information from it, yet it gave me a sort 
o' glow — that is all — like that lecture 
which I heard in my boyhood by Wendell 
PhilHps. 



46 



Xittle Sourness 



%eonar^o 
an&JEMson 



There is only one thing in the book I 
remember, but that stands out as clearly 
as the little mole on White Pigeon's fore- 
head. The author said that Leonardo 
da Vinci invented more useful appliances 
than any man who ever lived, excepting 
our own Edison. 

I know Edison — ^he is a most lovable 
man (because he is himself), very deaf 
and glad of it, he says, because it saves 
him from hearing a lot of things he does n't 
wish to hear. "It is like this," he once 
said to me, " deafness gives you a needed 
isolation; reduces your sensitiveness so 
things do not disturb or distract; allows 
you to concentrate and focus on a thought 
until you run it down — see?" 

Edison is a great Philistine — reads 
everything I write — has a complete file of 
the little brownie magazine; and some of 
the "Little Journeys " I saw he had inter- 
lined and marked. I think Edison is one 
of the greatest men I ever met— ^he appre- 
ciates good things. 

I told Edison how this writer. Rose, had 
compared him with Leonardo. He smiled 
and said, "Who is Rose?" — ^then after a 
little pause continued, "The great man 



Xeonarbo Da Dtnct 



47 



is one who has been a long time dead — the 
woods are full of wizards, but not many 
of them know that," and the wizard 
laughed softly at his own joke. 

What kind of a man was Leonardo? 
Why he was the same kind of a man as 
Edison — only Leonardo was thin and tall 
while Edison is stout. But you and I 
would be at home with either. Both are 
classics and therefore essentially modem. 
Leonardo studied nature at first hands-^ 
he took nothing for granted — nature was 
his one book. Stuffy, fussy, indoor pro- 
fessors, — men of awful dignity, frighten 
folks, cause children to scream, and ladies 
to gaze in awe; but Leonardo was simple 
and unpretentious. He was at home in 
any society, high or low, rich or poor, 
learned or unlearned — and was quite con- 
tent to be himself. It 's a fine thing to be 
yourself! 

Thackeray once said, "If I had met 
Shakespeare on the stairs, I know I should 
have fainted dead away!" I do not be- 
lieve Shakespeare's presence ever made 
anybody faint. He was so big that he 
could well afford to put folks at their ease. 

If Leonardo should come to East Aurora, 



Content 

to 3Be 

•©(mself 



Xtttle 3ournei50 



(ToIIectind 
Ubinge 



Bertie, Oliver, Lyle, and I would tramp 
with him across the fields, and he would 
carry that leather bag strung across his 
shoulder, just as he did when in the 
country. He was a geologist and botanist, 
and was always collecting things (and 
forgetting where they were). 

We would tramp with him I say, and 
if the season were right, we would go 
through orchards, sit under the trees, and 
eat apples. And Leonardo would talk 
as he liked to do, and tell why the side of 
fruit that was towards the sun took on a 
beautiful colour first; and when an apple 
fell from the tree he would, so to speak, 
anticipate Sir Isaac Newton and explain 
why it fell down and not up. 

That leather bag of his, I fear, would 
get rather heavy before we got back, 
and probably Oliver and Lyle would 
dispute the honour of carrying it for him. 

Leonardo was once engaged by Caesar 
Borgia to fortify the kingdom of Romagna. 
It was a brand new kingdom, presented 
to the young man by Pope Alexander the 
Sixth. It was really the Pope who ordered 
Leonardo to survey the tract and make 
plans for the fortifications and canals 



Xeonarbo ba Vinci 



49 



and all that, — so Leonardo did n't like 
to refuse. Csesar Borgia had the felicity 
of being the son of the Pope, but the Pope 
used to refer to him as his nephew — ^it was 
a habit that Popes once had. Pope Alex- 
ander also had a daughter, by name, Lu- 
crezia Borgia, sister to Csesar and very 
much like him, for they took their diversion 
in the same way. 

Leonardo started in to do the work and 
make plans for fortifications that would 
be impregnable. He looked the ground 
over thoroughly, travelling on horseback, 
and his two servants followed him in a 
cart drawn by a bull, which Leonardo 
calmly explains was a ''side- wheeler." 

Leonardo carried a big sketch book, 
and as he made plans for redoubts, he 
made notes to the effect that crows fly 
in flocks without a leader, and wild ducks 
have a system and fly V-shape with a 
leader that changes off from time to time 
with the privates. Also a waterfall runs 
the musical gamut, and the water might 
be separated so to play a tune. Also the 
leaves turn to gold through oxidation, 
and robins pair for life. 

Leonardo also wrote at this time on 



Iplans an5 
motes 



50 Xittle 3ontnc^5 



"^^^^ the movements of the clouds, the broken 
strata of rocks, the fertiHsation of flowers, 
the habits of bees, and a hundred other 
themes which fill the library of note books 
that he left. 

Meanwhile Caesar Borgia was getting 
a trifle impatient about the building of 
his forts. Two years had passed when 
Cassar and his father met with an acci- 
dent not uncommon in those times. The 
precious pair had indulged in their Borgian 
specialty for the benefit of a certain cardi- 
nal, whom they did not warmly admire, 
though the plot seems to have been chiefly 
the work of Cassar. By mistake they 
drank the poisoned wine prepared for the 
cardinal, and the Pope was cut off amidst 
a life of usefulness, his son surviving for a 
worse fate. Pope Julius II. coming upon 
the scene, speedily dispossessed the Bor- 
gians and the idea of the new kingdom 
was abandoned. 

Leonardo evidently did not go into 
mourning for the Pope. He had a bullock 
cart loaded with specimens, sketches, and 
note books, and set to work to sort them 
out. He was very happy in this employ- 
ment — ^being essentially a man of peace — 



Xeonat^o t)a Wind 



51 



and while he made forts and planned siege 
guns he was a deal more interested in 
certain swallows that made nests and glued 
the work into a most curious and beautiful 
structure, then tearing up the nest when 
the young were old enough to fly and 
pushing the wee birds out to "swim in 
the air" or perish. 

I made some notes about Leonardo's 
bird observations in the back of that 
Renaissance book that White Pigeon 
appropriated. I cannot recall just what 
they were — I think I '11 hunt White Pigeon 
up the next time I am in Paris, and get 
the book back. 



m matuts 

alist 



52 



II 



ffiirtb of 
!Iteonai:l>o 



WHEN that painstaking biographer, Ar- 
sene Houssaye, was endeavouring 
to fix the date of Leonardo da Vinci's birth 
he interviewed a certain bishop, who waived 
the matter thus, ''Surely what difference 
does it make, since he had no business to 
be bom at all?" — a very Milesian-like 
reply. 

Houssaye is too sensible a man to waste 
words with the spiritually obese, and so 
merely answered in the language of Ter- 
ence, " I am a man and nothing that is 
human is alien to me!" 

The gentle Erasmus when a boy, was 
once taunted by a schoolfellow with 
having ''no name." And Erasmus re- 
plied, "Then I'll make one for myself." 
And he did. 

No record of Leonardo's birth exists, 



OLeonarbo ba IDinct 



53 



but the year is fixed upon in a very curious 
way. Caterina, his mother, was married 
one year after his birth. The date of this 
marriage is proven and the fact that the 
son of Piero da Vinci was then a year old 
is also shown. As the marriage occurred 
in 1453, we simply go back one year and 
say that Leonardo da Vinci was bom 
in 1452. 

Most accounts say that Caterina was a 
servant in the da Vinci family, but a later 
and seemingly more authentic writer in- 
forms us that she was a governess and 
teacher of needle work. That her kins- 
men hastened her marriage with the 
peasant, Vacca Accattabriga, seems quite 
certain; they sought to establish her in 
a respectable position. And so she ac- 
quiesced, and avoided society's displeas- 
ure, very much as Lord Bacon escaped 
disgrace by leaving "Hamlet" upon 
Shakespeare's doorstep. 

This child of Caterina' s found a warm 
welcome in the noble family of his father, 
From his babyhood he seems to have had 
the power of winning hearts — he came 
fresh from God and brought love with 
him. We even hear a little rustle of 



Catecina 



54 Xlttle 5ournep5 



ffieiovcb dissent from grandmothers and aunts 

bB Bll 

when his father, Piero da Vinci married, 
and started housekeeping as did Benjamin 
Franklin ''with a wife and a bouncing 
boy." 

The charm of the child is again revealed 
in the fact that his stepmother treated 
him as her own babe, and lavished her 
love upon him even from her very wedding 
morn. Perhaps the compliment should 
go to her, as well as to the child, for the 
woman whose heart goes out to another 
woman's babe is surely good quality. And 
this was the only taste of motherhood that 
this brave woman knew, for she passed 
out in a few months. 

Fate decreed that Leonardo should 
have successively four stepmothers, and 
should live with all of them in happiness 
and harmony, for he always made his 
father's house his own. 

Leonardo was the idol of his father and 
all these stepmothers. He had ten half- 
brothers who alternately boasted of his 
kinship, and flouted him. Yet nothing 
could seriously disturb the serenity of his 
mind. When his father died, without 
a will, the brothers sought to dispossess 



Xeonar^o t)a Dinci 



55 



Leonardo of his rights, and we hear of a 
lawsuit, which was finally compromised. 
Yet note the magnanimity of Leonardo — 
in his will he leaves bequests to these 
brothers who had sought to undo 
him! 

Of the life of the mother after her mar- 
riage we know nothing. There is a vague 
reference in Vasari's book to her " large 
family and growing cares," but whether 
she knew of her son's career, we cannot 
say. Leonardo never mentions her, yet 
one writer has attempted to show that the 
rare beauty of that mysterious face shown 
in so many of Leonardo's pictures was 
modelled from the face of his mother. 

No love story comes to us in Leonardo's 
own life — he never married. Ventura sug- 
gests that " on account of his birth, he was 
indifferent to the divine institution of 
marriage." But this is pure conjecture. 
We know that his great contemporaries, 
Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian, and 
Giorgione never married; and we know 
further that there was a sentiment in the 
air at that time, that an artist belonged 
to the Church, and his life, like that of a 
priest, was sacred to her service. 



mo xove 

StocB 



56 



Xlttle Journeps 



3Belfef in 
Ibimself 



Like Sir William Davenant, Leonardo 
was always proud of the mystery that 
surrounded his birth — ^it differentiated him 
from the mass, and placed him as one set 
apart. Well might he have used the 
language put into the mouth of lEdmund 
in King Lear. In one of Leonardo's 
manuscripts is found an interjected prayer 
of thankfulness for "the divinity of my 
birth, and the angels that have guarded 
my life and guided my feet." This idea of 
"divinity" is strong in the mind of every 
great man. He recognises his sonship, 
and claims his divine parentage. The man 
of masterly mind is perforce an egotist. 
When he speaks he says, "Thus saith the 
Lord." If he did not believe in himself, 
how could he make others believe in him? 
Small men are apologetic and give excuses 
for being on earth, and reasons for staying 
here so long, and run and peek about to 
find themselves dishonourable graves. Not 
so the great souls — the fact that they are 
here is proof that God sent them. Their 
actions are regal, their language oracular, 
their manner affirmative. Leonardo's 
mental attitude was sublimely gracious — 



Xeonatt)o Da Dlnct 



57 



he had no grievance with his Maker — he 
accepted Hfe, and found it good. *'We 
are all sons of God and it doth not yet 
appear what we shall be." 



Sons of 
(50£> 



58 



III 



BnHii nHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON, 

1Rounl> 
life 



1 who wrote the Intellectual Life, 
names Leonardo da Vinci as having lived 
the richest, fullest, and best rounded life 
of which we know. Yet while Leonardo 
lived there lived also these : Shakespeare, 
Cervantes, Columbus, Martin Luther, 
Savonarola, Loyola, Erasmus, Michael 
Angelo, Titian, and Raphael. Titans all — 
giants in intellect and performance, doing 
and daring, and working such wonders 
as men never before worked. Writing 
plays, without thought of posterity, that 
are to-day the mine from which men work 
their poetry; producing comedies that 
are classic ; sailing trackless seas and dis- 
covering continents; tacking proclama- 
tions of defiance on church doors; 
hunted and exiled for the right of honest 



Xeonar^o ^a IDinct 



59 



speech; welcoming fierce flames of fagots; 
falling upon blocks of marble and liberat- 
ing angels; painting pictures that have 
inspired millions! But not one touched 
life at so many points, or revelled so in 
existence, or was so captain of his soul 
as was Leonardo da Vinci. 

Vasari calls him the " divinely endowed," 
"showered with the richest gifts as by 
celestial munificence," and speaks of his 
countenance thus: ''The radiance of his 
face was so splendidly beautiful that it 
brought cheerfulness to the hearts of the 
most melancholy, and his presence was 
such that his lightest word would move 
the most obstinate to say 'Yes' or ' No/ " 

Bandello, the story teller who was made 
a Bishop on account of his peculiar talent, 
had the effrontery to put one of his worst 
stories, that about the adventures of Fra 
Lippo Lippi into the mouth of Leonardo. 
This rough-cast tale, somewhat softened 
down and hand-polished, served for one 
of Browning's best known poems. Had 
Bandello allowed Botticelli to tell the tale, 
it would have been much more in keeping. 
Leonardo's days were too full of work 
to permit of his indulging in the society 



S)ivfnels 

3en&owe& 



6o 



Xittle 3outneps 



Xeonar&o's 
Bngel 



of roysterers — ^his life was singularly digni- 
fied and upright. 

When about twenty years old Leonardo 
was a fellow-student with Perugino in the 
hettega of good old Andrea del Verrocchio. 
It seems the master painted a group and 
gave Leonardo the task of drawing in one 
figure. Leonardo painted in an angel — 
an angel whose grace and subtle beauty 
stands out, even to-day, like a ray of light. 
The story runs that good old Verrocchio 
wept on first seeing it — ^wept unselfish 
tears of joy, touched with a very human 
pathos — his pupil had far surpassed him, 
and never again did Verrocchio attempt 
to paint. 

In physical strength Leonardo surpassed 
all of his comrades. " He could twist 
horseshoes between his fingers, bend bars 
of iron across his knees, disarm every 
adversary, and in wrestling, running, vault- 
ing, and swimming he had no equals. He 
was especially fond of horses, and in the 
joust often rode animals that had never 
before been ridden, winning prizes from 
the most daring." 

Brawn is usually purchased at the ex- 
pense of brain, but not so in this case. 



Xeonarbo ba IDinci 



6i 



Leonardo was the courtier and diplomat, 
and all the finer graces were in his keeping, 
even from boyhood. And a recent bio- 
grapher has made the discovery that he was 
called from Florence to the Court of Milan 
"because he was such an adept harpist, 
playing and singing his own compositions." 

Yet we have the letter written by Leon- 
ardo to the Duke of Milan, wherein he 
commends himself, and in humility tells 
of a few things he can do. This most 
precious document is now in the Am- 
brosian Library at Milan. After naming 
nine items in the way of constructing 
bridges, tunnels, canals, fortifications, the 
making of cannon, use of combustibles and 
explosives — ^known to him alone — he gets 
down to things of peace and says : 

" I believe I am equalled by no one in 
architecture in constructing public and 
private buildings, and in conducting water 
from one place to another. I can execute 
sculpture, whether in marble, bronze, or 
terra cotta, and in drawing and painting 
I believe I can do as much as any other 
man, be he who he may. Further, I 
could engage to execute the bronze statue 
in memory of your honoured father. And 



Commcnbp 
Ibimself 



62 



Xtttle Journeys 



H iffian of 

1RttowIe6gc 



again, if any of the above mentioned 
things should appear impossible, or over- 
stated, I am ready to make such perform- 
ance in any place or at any time to prove 
to you my power. In humility I thus 
commend myself to your illustrious house, 
and am your servant, 

" Leonardo da Vinci." 



And the strange part of all this is that 
Leonardo could do all he claimed — or 
he might, if there were a hundred hours in 
a day and a man did not grow old. 

The things he predicted and planned 
have mostly been done. He knew the 
earth was round, and understood the 
orbits of the planets — Columbus knew 
no more. His scheme of building a canal 
from Pisa to Florence and diverting the 
waters of the Arno, was carried out exactly 
as he had planned, two hundred years 
after his death. 

He knew the expansive quality of steam, 
the right systems of dredging, the action 
of the tides, the proper use of levers, 
screws, and cranes, and how immense 
weights could be raised and lowered. He 
placed a new foundation under a church 



Xeonart)0 t)a Vinci 6^ 



that was sinking: in the sand and elevated ^anie= 
the whole stone structure several feet. 
But when Vasari seriously says he had a 
plan for moving mountains, (aside from 
faith) I think we would better step aside 
and talk of other things. 

And all this time that he was working 
at physics and mathematics, he was paint- 
ing and modelling in clay, just for recrea- 
tion. 

Then behold the Duke of Milan, the 
ascetic and profligate, libertine and dream- 
er, hearing of him and sending straight- 
way for Leonardo because he is " the most 
accomplished harpist in Italy!" 

So Leonardo came and led the dance and 
the tourney, improvised songs, and planned 
the fetes and festivals where strange ani- 
mals turned into birds and gigantic 
flowers opened, disclosing beautiful girls. 

Yet Leonardo found time to plan the 
equestrian statue of Francisco Sporza, the 
Duke's father, and finding the subject 
so interesting he took up the systematic 
study of the horse, and dived to the depths 
of horse anatomy in a way that no living 
man had done before. He dissected the 
horse, articulated the skeletons of different 



H 



Xittle 5ourne^s 



B>afnts 
gJottrafts 



breeds for comparison, and then wrote a 
book upon the subject which is a text- 
book yet ; and meanwhile he let the statue 
wait. He discovered that in the horse 
there are rudimentary muscles, and unused 
organs, — the " water stomach " for instance 
— ^thus showing that the horse evolved 
from a lower form of life — anticipating 
Darwin by three hundred years. 

The Duke was interested in statues and 
pictures — what he called "results" — he 
did n't care for speculations or theories, 
and only a live horse that could run fast 
interested him. So to keep the peace, the 
gracious Leonardo painted portraits of the 
Duke's mistress, posing her as the Blessed 
Virgin, thus winning the royal favour and 
getting carte-blanche orders on the keeper 
of the exchequer. As a result of this Milan 
period we have the superb portrait now 
in the Louvre, of Lucrezia Crivelli, who 
was supposed to be the favourite of the 
Duke. 

But the Duke was a married man, and 
the good wife must be placated. She 
turned to religion when her lover's love 
grew cold, just as women always do; and 
for her Leonardo painted the Last 



Xeonar^o 5a IDtnci 



65 



Slipper in the dining room of the monas- 
tery which was under her special protec- 
tion, and where she often dined. 

The devout lady found much satisfaction 
in directing the work, which was to be 
rather general and simply decorative. 
But the heart of Leonardo warmed to the 
task and as he worked he planned the 
most famous painting in the world. 

All this time Leonardo had many 
pupils in painting and sculpture. Soon 
he founded the Milan Academy of Art. 
At odd times he made designs for the 
Duke's workers in silver and gold, drew 
patterns for the nuns to embroider from, 
and gave them and the assembled ladies, 
invited on the order of the Duke's wife, 
lessons in literature and the gentle art of 
writing poetry. 

The Prior of the monastery watched the 
work of the Last Supper with impatient 
eyes. He had given up the room to the 
lumbering scaffolds, hoping to have all 
cleaned up and tidy in a month, come 
Michaelmas. But the month had passed 
and only blotches of color and black, 
curious outlines marred the walls. Once 
the Prior threatened to remove the lumber 



ADilan 

Hca&em)2 

of Bet 



66 



Xittle Sournei^s 



Xast 
Supper ' 



by force and wipe the walls clean, but 
Leonardo looked at him and he retreated. 

Now he complained to the Duke about 
the slowness of the task. Leonardo worked 
alone, allowing no pupil or helper to 
touch the picture. Five good lively men 
could do the job in a week — " I could do 
it myself, if allowed," the good Prior 
said. Often Leonardo would stand with 
folded arms and survey the work for an 
hour at a time and not lift a brush; the 
Prior had seen it all through the key-hole ! 

The Duke listened patiently and then 
summoned Leonardo. The painter's grac- 
ious speech soon convinced the Duke 
that men of genius do not work like hired 
labourers. This painting was to be a 
masterpiece, fit monument to a wise and 
virtuous ruler. So consummate a perform- 
ance must not be hastened; besides there 
was no one to pose for either the head of 
Christ or of Judas. The Christ must be 
ideal and the face could only be conjured 
forth from the painter's own soul, in 
moments of inspiration. As for Judas, 
**why if nothing better can be found — 
and I doubt it much — I believe I will take 
as model for Judas our friend the Priori" 



3Leonart)0 ba Dtnci 67 



And Leonardo turned to the Prior who ®^"["^ 
fled and never again showed his face in ^laient 
the room until the picture was finished. 

The Prior's complaint that Leonardo 
had too many irons in the fire, was the 
one universal cry the groundlings raised 
against him. " He begins things but 
never completes them," they said. 

The man of genius conceives things ; the 
man of talent carries them forward to com- 
pletion. This the critics did not know. 
It is too much to expect the equal balance 
of genius and talent in one individual. 
Leonardo had great talent, but his genius 
outstripped it, for he planned what twenty 
lifetimes could not complete. He was the 
endless experimenter — his was the ex- 
perimental life. His incentive was self- 
development — to conceive was enough — 
common men could complete. To try 
many things means Power : to finish a few 
is Immortality. 



6S 



Ibuman 
jface 



IV 

Ube nPHE human face is the masterpiece of 
A God. A woman's smile may have in 
it more pathos than a battle-scarred land- 
scape; more warmth than the sun's bright 
rays; more love than words can say. 

The human face is the masterpiece of 
God. The eyes reveal the soul, the mouth 
the flesh, the chin stands for purpose, the 
nose means will. But over and behind 
all is that fleeting something we call " ex- 
pression." This something is not set or 
fixed, it is fluid as the ether, changeful 
as the clouds that move in mysterious 
majesty across the surface of a summer 
sky, subtle as the sob of rustling leaves — 
too faint at times for human ears — elusive 
as the ripples that play hide and seek 
over the bosom of a placid lake. And yet 



Xeonart)0 C)a IDinci 69 

men have caught expression and held it ^f^^ 
captive. 

On the walls of the Louvre hangs the 
Mona Lisa of Leonardo da Vinci. This 
picture has been for four hundred years 
an exasperation and an inspiration to 
every portrait painter who has put brush 
to palette. Well does Walter Pater call 
it, "The Despair of Painters." The artist 
was over fifty years of age when he 
began the work, and he was four years 
in completing the task. 

Completing, did I say? Leonardo's dy- 
ing regret was that he had not completed 
this picture. And yet we might say of it, 
as Ruskin said of Turner's work, *' By 
no conceivable stretch of imagination 
can we say where this picture could be 
bettered or improved upon." 

Leonardo did not paint this portrait 
for the woman who sat for it, nor for the 
woman's husband, who we know was not 
interested in the matter. The painter 
made the picture for himself, but suc- 
cumbing to temptation, sold it to the 
King of France for a sum equal to some- 
thing over eighty thousand dollars, — an 
enormous amount at that time to be paid 



70 



Xlttle Sourness 



0focon&a 



for a single canvas. The picture was not 
for sale, which accounts for the tremen- 
dous price that it brought. 

Unlike so many other works attributed 
to Leonardo, no doubt exists as to the 
authenticity of "La Gioconda. ' ' The corre- 
spondence relative to its sale yet exists, 
and even the voucher proving its pay- 
ment may still be seen. Fate and fort- 
une have guarded the Mona Lisa; and 
neither thief nor vandal, nor impious 
infidel, nor unappreciating stupidity, nor 
time itself has done it harm. France bought 
the picture ; France has always owned and 
housed it; it still belongs to France. 

We call the Mona Lisa a portrait, and 
we have been told how "La Gioconda" 
sat for the picture, and how the artist 
invented ways of amusing her, by stories, 
recitations, the luring strain of hidden 
lutes, and strange flowers, and rare pic- 
tures brought in as surprises to animate 
and cheer. 

That Leonardo loved this woman we are 
sure, and that their friendship was close 
and intimate the world has guessed ; but 
the picture is not her portrait — ^it is 
himself whom the artist reveals. 



Xeonar^o t)a IDinci 71 



Away back m his youth, when Leonardo ^^^^^ 

1 • 1 TT 1 • 1 <Eounte= 

was a student ^\ath Verrocchio, he gave nance 
us gHmpses of this same face. He showed 
this woman's mysterious smile in the 
Madonna, in St. Anne, Mary Magdalen, 
and the outlines of the features are sug- 
gested in the Christ and the St. John of 
the Last Supper, But not until "La 
Gioconda" had posed for him did the 
consummate beauty and mysterious intel- 
lect of this ideal countenance find ex- 
pression. 

There is in the face all you can read into 
it, and nothing more. It gives you what 
you bring, and nothing else. It is as 
silent as the lips of Memnon, as voiceless 
as the Sphinx. It suggests to you every 
joy that you have ever felt, every sorrow 
you have ever known, every triumph you 
have ever experienced. 

This woman is beautiful, just as all life 
is beautiful when we are in health. She 
has no quarrel with the world — she loves 
and she is loved again. No vain longing 
fills her heart, no feverish unrest disturbs 
her dreams, for her no crouching fears 
haunt the passing hours — ^that ineffable 
smile which plays around her mouth says 



72 



Xtttle 5ourneps 



Ipower to 
IRcpel an& 
to attract 



plainly that life is good. And yet the 
circles about the eyes and the drooping 
lids hint of world-weariness, and speak 
the message of Koheleth and say, " Vanity 
of vanities, all is vanity." 

"La Gioconda" is infinitely wise, for 
she has lived. That supreme poise is 
only possible to one who knows. All the 
experiences and emotions of manifold 
existence have etched and moulded that 
form and face until the body has become 
the perfect instrument of soul. 

Like every piece of intense personality, 
this picture has power both to repel and 
to attract. To this woman nothing is either 
necessarily good or bad. She has known 
strange woodland loves in far off aeons 
when the world was young. She is familiar 
with the nights and days of Cleopatra, for 
they were hers — the lavish luxury, the 
animalism of a soul on fire, the smoke of 
curious incense that brought poppy-like 
repose, the satiety that sickens — all these 
were her portion; the sting of the asp 
yet lingers in her memory, and the faint 
scar from its fangs is upon her white breast 
known and wondered at by Leonardo 
who loved her. 



XeonartJO ba Vinci 



73 



Back of her, stretches her Hfe, a myster- 
ious purple shadow. Do you not see the 
palaces turned to dust, the broken columns, 
the sunken treasures, the creeping mosses, 
and the rank ooze of fretted waters that 
have undermined cities and turned king- 
doms into desert seas? The galleys of 
pagan Greece have swung wide for her 
on the unforgetting tide, for her soul dwelt 
in the body of Helen of Troy, and Pallas 
Athene has followed her ways and whis- 
pered to her even the secrets of the gods. 

Aye! not only was she Helen, but she 
was Leda the mother of Helen. Then 
she was St. Anne, mother of Mary; and 
next she was Mary, visited by an angel in 
a dream, and followed by the Wise Men 
who had seen the Star in the East. The 
centuries, that are but thoughts, found 
her a Vestal Virgin in Pagan Rome when 
brutes were kings, and lust stalked ram- 
pant through the streets. She was the 
bride of Christ and her fair, frail body 
was flung to the wild beasts, and torn 
limb from limb while the multitude 
feasted on the sight. 

True to the central impulse of her soul 
the Dark Ages rightly called her Cecilia, 



Hn IF&eal 
3fac6 



74 



%ittlc Journeys 



3tat)s of tbe 

3Beautiful 

Ibande 



and then Saint Cecilia, mother of sacred 
music, and later she ministered to men as 
Melania, the Nun of Tagaste ; next as that 
daughter of William the Conqueror, the 
Sister of Charity who went throughout 
Italy, Spain, and France, and taught the 
women of the nunneries how to sew, to 
weave, to embroider, to illuminate books, 
and make beauty, truth, and harmony 
manifest to human eyes. And so this 
Lady of the Beautiful Hands stood to 
Leonardo as the embodiment of a perpet- 
ual life; moving in a constantly ascend- 
ing scale, gathering wisdom, graciousness, 
love, even as he himself in this life, met 
every experience half-way and counted it 
joy, knowing that experience is the germ 
of power. Life writes its history upon the 
face, so that all those who have had a like 
experience read and understand. The 
human face is the masterpiece of God. 



BOTTICELLI 



75 



77 



In Leonardo's Treatise on Painting only one 
contemporary is named — Sandro Botticelli. 
The pagan and Christian world mingle in the work 
of Botticelli; but the man himself belonged to an 
age that is past and gone — an age that flourished 
long before men recorded history. His best efforts 
seem to spring out of a heart that forgot all prece- 
dent, and arose, Venus-like, perfect and complete, 
from the unfathomable Sea of Existence. 



anb 
Cbristian 



Walter Pater. 



79 



o 



NE Professor Max Lautner has re- uautnec' 
cently placed a small petard under ^^^ '^' 



the European world of Art, and given it 
a hoist to starboard, by asserting that 
Rembrandt did not paint Rembrandt's 
best pictures. The professor makes his 
point luminous by a cryptogram he has 
invented and for which he has filed a 
caveat. It is a very useful cryptogram; 
no well regulated family should be without 
it — ^for by it you can prove any proposition 
you may make, even to establishing that 
Hopkinson Smith is America's only stylist. 
My opinion is that this cryptogram is an 
infringement on that of our lamented 
countryman, Ignatius Donnelly. 

But letting that pass, the statement 
that Rembrandt could not have painted 
the pictures that are ascribed to him "be- 



gram 



8o 



Xtttle 5outnep0 



TIwo Souls 



cause the man was low, vulgar, and un- 
taught," commands respect on account 
of the extreme crudity of the thought in- 
volved. Lautner is so dull that he is en- 
tertaining. 

"I have the capacity in me for every 
crime," wrote that gentlest of gentle 
men, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Of course 
he had n't, and in making this assertion, 
Emerson pulled toward him a little more 
credit than was his due. . That is, he 
overstated a great classic truth. 

*'If Rembrandt painted the Christ at 
Emmaus and the Sortie of the Civic 
Guard, then Rembrandt had two souls," 
exclaims Professor Lautner. And the 
simple answer of Emerson would have 
been, "He had." 

That is just the difference between 
Rembrandt and Professor Lautner. Laut- 
ner has one flat, dead-level, unprofitable 
soul that neither soars high nor dives deep ; 
and his mind reasons unobjectionable 
things out syllogistically, in a manner 
perfectly inconsequential. He is ''icily 
regular, splendidly null. 

Every man measures others by him- 
self — ^he has only one standard. When a 




SANDRO BOTTICELLI PITTORF, 
FTORENTINO 






i 



^Botticelli 



man ridicules certain traits in other men, 
he ridicules himself. How would he know 
that other men were contemptible, did 
he not look into his own heart and there 
see the hateful things? Thackeray wrote 
his book on Snobs because he was a 
snob, — which is not saying that he was a 
snob all the time. 

When you recognise a thing, good or 
bad, in the outside world, it is because 
it was yours already. 

''I carry the world in my heart," said 
the prophet of old. All the universe 
you have is the universe you have 
within. 

Old Walt Whitman when he saw the 
wounded soldier, exclaimed, " I am that 
man!" And two thousand years before 
this, Terence said, '^ I am a man, and 
nothing that is human is alien to me." 

I know just why Professor Lautner 
believes that Rembrandt never could have 
painted a picture with a deep, tender, 
subtle, and spiritual significance. Pro- 
fessor Lautner averages fairly well, he 
labours hard to be consistent, but his 
thought gamut runs just from Bottom 
the weaver to Dogberry^ the judge. He 



trbe ^KIlorI^ 
in J3our 
•ffDeart 



82 



Xittle 5ourneps 



"Clntaugbt 



is a cauliflower, — that is to say, a cabbage 
with a college education. 

Yes, I understand him, because for 
most of the time, I myself am supremely 
dull, childishly dogmatic, beautifully self- 
complacent. 

I am Lautner. 

Lautner says, Rembrandt was "un- 
taught," and Donnelly said the same 
of Shakespeare, and each critic gives this 
as a reason why the man could not have 
done a sublime performance. Yet since 
Hamlet was never equalled, who could 
have taught its author how? And since 
Rembrandt at his best was never surpassed, 
who could have instructed him? 

Rembrandt sold his wife's wedding gar- 
ments, and spent the money for strong 
drink. 

The woman was dead. 

And then there came to him days of 
anguish, and nights of grim, grinding pain. 
He paced the echoing halls, as did Robert 
Browning after the death of Elizabeth 
Barrett when he cried aloud, " I want her! 
I want her!" 

The cold grey light of morning came 
creeping into the sky. Rembrandt was 



Botticelli 



^3 



fevered, restless, sleepless. He sat by the 
window and watched the day unfold. 
And as he sat there looking out to the 
east, the light of love gradually drove 
the darkness from his heart. He grew 
strangely calm — he listened, he thought 
he heard the rustle of a woman's garments ; 
— he imagined Saskia was at his elbow. 

He took up the palette and brushes 
that for weeks had lain idle, and he out- 
lined the Christ at Emmaus — ^the gentle, 
loving, sympathetic Christ — ^the worn, 
emaciated, thorn-crowned, bleeding Christ, 
whom the Pharisees misunderstood, and 
the soldiers spit upon. Don't you know 
how Rembrandt painted the Christ at 
Emmaus f I do. I am that man. 



"Cbrfst at 
Emmaus 



84 



II 



H 
beautiful 
/iDa&onna 



SHORTLY after Sandro Botticelli had 
painted that most distinctly pagan 
picture, The Birth of Venus ^ he equalised 
matters, eased conscience, and silenced 
the critics, by producing a beautiful Ma- 
donna, surrounded by a circle of singing 
angels. Yet, George Eliot writes, there 
were wiseacres who shook their heads and 
said, '' This Madonna is the work of some 
good monk — only a man who is deeply 
religious could put that look of exquisite 
tenderness and sympathy in a woman's 
face. Some one is trying to save Sandro' s 
reputation, and win him back from his 
wayward ways.'* 

In the lives of Botticelli and Rem- 
brandt there is a close similarity. In 
temperament as well as experience they 
seem to parallel each other. In boyhood 



JSotticellt 



85 



Botticelli and Rembrandt were dull, 
perverse, wilful. Both were given up 
by teachers and parents as hopelessly 
handicapped by stupidity. Botticelli's 
father, seeing that the boy made no pro- 
gress at school, apprenticed him to a 
metal-worker. The lad showed the es- 
teem in which he held his parent by 
dropping the family name of Filipepi and 
assuming the name of Botticelli, the 
name of his employer. 

Rembrandt thought his boy might 
make a fair miller, but beyond this his 
ambition never soared. Botticelli and 
Rembrandt were splendid animals. The 
many pictures of Rembrandt, painted 
by himself, show great physical vigour 
and vital power. 

The picture of Botticelli, by himself, 
in the Adoration of the Magi, reveals a 
powerful physique and striking person- 
ality. The man is as fine as an Aztec, 
as strong and self-reliant as a cliff-dweller. 
Character and habit are revealed in the 
jaw — the teeth of the Aztecs were made 
to grind dried com in the kernel, they 
had good teeth. Dentists were not re- 
quired until men began to feed on mush. 



JBottfcclH 
1Rem5ran^t 



S6 



Xittle Journeys 



tlBotticellPs 



Botticelli had broad, strong, square 
jaws, wide nostrils, full lips, large eyes 
set wide apart, forehead rather low and 
sloping, and a columnar neck that rose 
right out of his spine. A man with such 
a neck can ''stand punishment" — and 
give it. Such a neck is seen only once 
in a thousand times. Men with such 
necks have been mothered by women 
who bore burdens balanced on their 
heads, boycotted the corsetier, and es- 
chewed all deadly French heels. 

Do you know the face of Oliver Gold- 
smith, the droop of the head, the receding 
chin and bulging forehead? Well, Bot- 
ticelli's face was the antithesis of this. 

Most of the truly great artists have been 
men of this Stone- Age, — quality-men who 
dared. Michael Angelo was the pure 
type; Titian who lived a century (lack- 
ing one year) was another. Leonardo 
was the same fine savage (who in some 
miraculous way also possessed the grace 
of a courtier). Franz Hals, Van Dyck, 
Rembrandt, and Botticelli were all men 
of fierce appetites, and heroic physiques. 
They had animality plus that would 
have carried them across the century 



Botticelli 



87 



mark, had they not drawn checks on 
futurity, in a beHef that their bank 
balance was unlimited. 

Botticelli and Rembrandt kept step 
in their history, both receiving instant 
recognition in early life and becoming 
rich. Then fashion and society turned 
against them — the tide of popularity 
began to ebb. One reinforced his genius 
by strong drink, and the other became 
intoxicated with religious enthusiasm. 
Finally both begged alms in the public 
streets; and the bones of each filled 
a pauper's grave. 

Ruskin unearthed Botticelli, (just as 
he discovered Turner) and gave him to 
the Pre-Raphaelites, who fell down and 
worshipped him. Whether we would 
have had Bume-Jones without Botticelli, 
is a grave question, and anyway it would 
have been another Bume-Jones. There 
would have been no processions of tall, 
lissome, melancholy beauties wending 
their way to nowhere, were it not for 
the Spring, Ruskin held up the pic- 
ture, and the Pre-Raphaelites got them 
to their easels. At once all original 
" Botticellis " were gotten out "restored" 



•Kusftfn 
•Clneartbel) 
3Botticelli 



8S 



OLIttle Joumeps 



H "asottfs 
celli" 
at laic 



and reframed. The prices doubled, 
trebled, quadrupled as the brokers scour- 
ed Europe. By the year 1876 every 
''Botticelli" had found a home in some 
public institution or gallery, and no 
lure of gold could bring one forth. 

At Yale University there is a modest 
collection of good pictures. Among 
them is a ''Botticelli" — not a great pic- 
ture like the Crowned Madonna of the 
Uffizi, or The Nativity of the National 
Gallery, but still a picture painted by 
Sandro Botticelli, beyond a doubt. Re- 
cently J. Pierpont Morgan, alumnus of 
Harvard, conceived the idea that the 
"Botticelli" at Yale would look quite 
as well, and be safer if it were hung on 
the walls of the new granite fireproof 
Art Gallery at Cambridge. Accordingly 
he dispatched an agent to New Haven to 
buy the "Botticelli." The agent offered 
fifty thousand dollars, seventy-five, one 
hundred — no. Then he proposed to build 
Yale a new art gallery and stock it with 
Pan-American pictures, all complete, in 
exchange for that little, insignificant, and 
faded "Botticelli." 

But no trade was consummated, and 



JSotticellt 



89 



on the walls of Yale the picture still hangs. 
Each night a cot is carried in and placed 
beneath the picture. And there a watch- 
man sleeps and dreams of that portrait 
of the Duchess of Devonshire by Gains- 
borough, stolen from its frame, lost for 
a quarter of a century, and then rescued 
by one Colonel Patrick Sheedy, (philan- 
thropist and friend of art) for a considera- 
tion, and sold to J. Pierpont Morgan, 
alumnus of Harvard (and a very alert, 
alive, and active man). 



Ube Xost 
S>octtalt 



90 



B 

S)a33lfng 

Comet 



III 

A SHORT time ago there shot across 
the artistic firmament a comet of 
daring and dazzling brightness. Every 
comet is hurling onward to its death : de- 
struction is its only end: and upon each 
line and tracery of the work of Aubrey 
Beardsley is the taint of decay. 

To deny the genius of the man were 
vain — ^he had elements in his character 
that made him akin to Keats, Shelley, 
Bums, Byron, Chopin, and Stephen Crane. 
With these his name will in brotherhood 
be forever linked. He was one made to 
suffer, sin, and die — a few short summers, 
and autumn came with yellow leaves and 
he was gone. And the principal legacy 
he left us is the thought of wonder as to 
what he might have been had he only 
lived! 



JSotttcelU 



91 



Aubrey Beardsley's art was the art of 
the ugly. His countenances are so re- 
pulsive that they attract. The psychology 
of the looks, and leers, and grins, and hot 
hectic desires upon the faces of his women 
are a puzzle that we cannot lay aside — we 
want to solve the riddle of this paradox of 
existence — ^the woman whose soul is mire 
and whose heart is hell. Many men have 
tried to fathom it at close range, but we 
devise a safer plan and follow the trail in 
books, art, and imagination. Art shows 
you the thing you might have done or been. 
Burke says the ugly attracts us, because 
we congratulate ourselves that we are 
not it. 

The Madonna pictures, multiplied with- 
out end, stand for peace, faith, hope, trust- 
fulness, and love. All that is fairest, 
holiest, purest, noblest, best, men have 
tried to portray in the face of the Madonna. 
All the good that is in the hearts of all 
the good women they know, all the good 
that is in their own hearts, they have 
made to shine forth from the '* Mother of 
God." Woman has been the symbol of 
righteousness and faith. 

On the other hand it was a woman — 



a>abonna 
Ipfctures 



92 



Xtttle Journeys 



TKnoman 
in 



Louisa De la Rame — ^who said, "Woman 
is the instrument of lust." Saint Chrys- 
ostom wrote, ''She is the snare the devil 
uses to lure men to their doom." I am 
not quite ready to accept the dictum of 
that old, old story that it was the woman 
who collaborated with the serpent and 
first introduced sin and sorrow into the 
world. Or, should I believe this, I wish 
to give woman due credit for giving to 
man the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge 
— ^the best gift that ever came his 
way. 

But the first thought holds true in a 
poetic way — ^it has always been, is yet, 
and always will be true, that the very 
depths of degradation are only sounded by 
woman. As poets, painters, and sculptors 
have ever chosen a woman to stand for 
what is best in humanity, so she has posed 
as their model when they wanted to reveal 
the worst. 

This desire to depict villainy on a human 
face seems to have found its highest modem 
exponent in Aubrey Beardsley. With 
him man is an animal, and woman a beast. 
Aye, she is worse than a beast — she is a 
vampire. Kipling's summing up of woman 



JSotttceUt 



93 



as " a rag and a bone, and a hank of hair" 
gives no clue to the possibiHties in way of 
subtle, reckless, reaches of deviltry, com- 
pared with a single simple outline drawing 
by Beardsley. 

Beardsley's heroines are the kind of 
women who can kill a man by a million 
pin pricks, so diabolically, subtly, and slyly 
administered that no one but the victim 
would be aware of the martyrdom — and 
he could not explain it. 

As you enter the main gallery of statuary 
at the Luxembourg you will see, on a 
slightly raised platform, at the extreme 
opposite end of the room, the nude figure 
of a man. The mould is heroic, and the 
strong pose at once attracts your attention. 
As you approach closer you will see, 
standing behind the man, the figure of a 
woman. Her form is elevated so she is 
leaning over him and her face is turned so 
her lips are about to be pressed upon his. 
You approach still closer, and a feeling of 
horror flashes through you — you see that 
the beautiful arms of the woman end in 
hairy claws. The claws embrace the man 
in deadly grasp, and are digging deep into 
his vitals. On his face is a look of fear- 



3Bear5s= 
Iberoines 



94 



%ittlc Journei^s 



Dampire ' 



ful pain, and every splendid muscle is tense 
with awful agony. 

Now if you do as I did, you will sud- 
denly turn and go out into the fresh air — 
the fearful realism of the marble will for 
the moment unnerve you. 

This is the piece of statuary that gave 
Phillip Burne- Jones the cue for his paint- 
ing. The Vampire; which picture sug- 
gested the poem, by the same name, to 
Rudyard Kipling. 

Aubrey Beardsley gloated on The 
Vampire — she was the sole goddess of 
his idolatry. 

No wonder it was that the story of 
Salome attracted him! Salome was a 
woman so wantonly depraved that Beards- 
ley, with a touch of pious hypocrisy, said 
he dared not use her for dramatic pur- 
poses, save for the fact that she was a 
Bible character. 

You remember the story: — ^John the 
Baptist, the strong, fine youth came up 
out of the wilderness crying in the streets 
of Jerusalem, ''Repent ye! Repent ye!" 

Salome heard the call and looked upon 
the semi-naked young fanatic, from her 
window with half-closed, cat-like eyes. 



JSottlceUf 95 



She smiled, did this idle creature of luxury, saiome 
as she lay there amid the cushions on her 
couch, and gazed through the casement 
upon the preacher in the street. Suddenly 
a thought came to her! She arose on her 
elbow — she called her slaves. 

They clothed her in a gaudy gown, 
dressed her hair, and led her forth. 

Salome followed the wild, weird, re- 
ligious enthusiast. She pushed through 
the crowd and placed herself near the man. 

Their eyes met. She half smiled and 
gave him that look which had snared the 
soul of many another. But he only gazed 
at her with passionless, judging intensity, 
and repeated his cry, *' Repent ye, Repent 
ye, for the day is at hand!'* 

Her reply, uttered soft and low, was 
this: "I would kiss thy lips!'' 

He turned away and she reached to seize 
his garment, repeating — " I would kiss thy 
lips — I would kiss thy lips!" 

He turned aside, and forgot her, as he 
continued his warning cry, and went his 
way. 

The next day she waylaid the youth 
again; as he came near she suddenly and 
softly stepped forth and said in that 



96 Xittle Journei^s 

Salome Same low voice, ''I would kiss thy lips!" 

He repulsed her with scorn. She threw 
her arms about him and sought to draw 
his head down near hers. He pushed her 
from him with sinewy hands, sprang as 
from a pestilence, and was lost in the 
pressing throng. 

That night she danced before Herod 
Antipas and when the promise was recalled 
that she should have anything she wished, 
she named the head of the only man who 
had ever turned away from her — "The 
head of John the Baptist on a charger!" 

In an hour the wish is gratified. Two 
eunuchs stand before Salome with a silver 
tray bearing its fearsome burden. 

The woman smiles — a smile of triumph, 
as she steps forth with tinkling feet. A 
look of pride comes over the painted face. 
Her jewelled fingers reach into the blood- 
matted hair. She lifts the head aloft, 
and the bracelets on her brown, bare arms 
fall to her shoulders, making strange 
music. Her face presses the face of the 
dead. In exultation she exclaims, " I 
have kissed thy lips!" 



97 



IV 

THE most famous picture painted by 
Botticelli is the Springy now in the 
Academy at Florence. The picture has 
given rise to endless inquiry, and the ex- 
planation was made in the artist's day and 
is still made, that it was painted to illus- 
trate a certain passage in Lucretius. This 
innocent little subterfuge of giving a 
classic turn to things in art and literature, 
has allowed many a man to shield his 
reputation and gloss his good name. 
When Art relied upon the protecting wing 
of the Church, the poet-painters called 
their risky little things Susannah and 
the Elders, The Wife of Uriah, or Pha- 
raoh's Daughter. Lucas van Leyden once 
pictured a Dutch wench with such startling 
and realistic fidelity that he scandalised 
a whole community, until he labelled the 
picture Potiphar's Wife. 



H jf amous 
[picture 



98 Xtttle Journeys 



Spring" When the taste for the classics be- 
gan to be cultivated, we had Leda and 
the Swan, Psyche, Phryne before the 
Judges, Aphrodite rising from the Sea ; 
and later, England experienced quite an 
artistic eruption of Lady Godivas. Lit- 
erature is filled with many such naive 
little disguises as Sonnets from the Port- 
uguese, and Robert Browning himself 
caught the idea and put many a maxim 
into the mouth of another, for which he 
preferred not to stand sponsor. ^ 

Botticelli painted the Spring for 
Lorenzo the Magnificent, to be placed in 
the Medici villa at Castello. The picture 
it will be remembered, represents seven 
female figures, a flying cupid, and a youth. 
The youth is a young man of splendid 
proportions ; he stands in calm indifference 
with his back to the sparsely clad beauties, 
and reaches into the branches of a tree for 
the plenteous fruit. This youth is a 
composite portrait of Botticelli and his 
benefactor, Lorenzo. The women were 
painted from life, and represent various 
favourites and beauties of the court. The 
drawing is faulty, the centre of gravity 
being lost in several of the figures, and 



JSotttcellt 99 



the anatomy of a quality that must have ** spring' 
given a severe shock to the artist's friend 
Leonardo. Yet the grace, the movement, 
and the joyous quahty of the spring is in 
it all. It is a most fascinating picture, 
and we can well imagine the flutter it 
produced when first exhibited four hundred 
years ago. 

Two figures in the picture challenge 
attention. One of these represents ap- 
proaching maternity — a most daring thing 
to attempt. This feature seems to belong 
to the school of Hogarth alone — a school 
which, let us pray, is hopelessly dead. 

Cimabue and several of his pupils paint- 
ed realistic pictures representing Mary 
visiting Elizabeth, but the intense religious 
zeal back of them, was a salt that saved 
from offending. Occasionally the staid 
and sober Dutch successfully attempted 
the same theme, and their stolidity stood 
for them, as religious zeal had done for 
the early Italians — ^we pardon them simply 
because they knew no better than to 
choose a subject that is beyond the realm 
of art. 

The restorers and engravers have soften- 
ed down Botticelli's intent, which was 



lOO 



Xtttle 5ottrnei^0 



Spring*' originally well defined, but we can easily 
see that the effect was delicate and spiritual. 
The woman's downcast gaze is full of 
tenderness and truth. That figure when 
it was painted was history, and must have 
had a very tender interest for two persons 
at least. Had the painter dared to suggest 
motherhood in that other figure — ^the one 
with the flowered raiment — ^he would 
have offended against decency, and the 
art-sense of the world would have stricken 
his name from the roster of fame forever, 
and made him anathema. 

More had been written and said, and 
more copies made of that woman in the 
flowered dress in the Spring than of any 
other portrait I can remember, save pos- 
sibly the Mona Lisa. 

The face is not without a certain attrac- 
tiveness ; the high cheek bones, the narrow 
forehead, and the lines above her brow 
show that this is no ideal sketch — it is 
the portrait of a woman who once lived. 
But the peculiar mark of depravity is the 
eye — ^this woman looks at you with a 
cold, calm, calculating, brazen leer. Hid- 
den in the folds of her dress or the coil 
of her hair, is a stiletto — she can find it 



JSotticeUt loi 



in an instant — and as she looks at you **®p'^*"9' 
out of those impudent eyes, she is mentally 
searching out your most vulnerable spot. 
In this woman's face there is an entire 
absence of wonder, curiosity, modesty, or 
passion. iVll that we call the eternally 
feminine is obliterated. 

Mona Lisa is infinitely wise, while this 
woman is only cunning. All the lure she 
possesses is the lure of warm, pulsing 
youth — ^grown old she will be a repulsive 
hag. Speculation has made her one of 
the Borgias, for in the days of Botticelli 
a Borgia was a pope, and Caesar Borgia 
and his court were well known to Botticelli 
— from such a group he could have picked 
his model, if anywhere. Ruskin has linked 
this unknown wicked beauty with Machia- 
velli. But Machiavelli had a head that 
out-matched hers, and he would certainly 
have left her to the fool-moths that 
fluttered around her candle. Machiavelli 
used women, and this woman, has only one 
ambition and that is to use men. She rep- 
resents concrete selfishness, — ^the mother 
instinct swallowed up in pride, and con- 
science smothered by hate. Certainly sex 
is not dead in her, but it is perverted below 



I02 Xxttle Sourness 



' Spring '» ^]^g brute. Her passion would be so in- 
tense and fierce that even as she caressed 
her lover, with arm about his neck, she 
would feel softly for his jugular, mindful 
the while, of the stiletto hidden in her 
hair. And this is the picture that fired 
the brain of Aubrey Beardsley, and caused 
him to fix his ambition on becoming the 
apostle of the ugly. 



I03 



TO LIKEN Beardsley to Botticelli seems 
indeed a sin. The master was an art- 
ist, but Beardsley only gave chalk talks. 
His work is often rude, crude, and raw. 
He is only a promise, turned to dust. Yet 
let the simple fact stand for what it is 
worth, that Beardsley had but one god 
and that was Botticelli. Most of the 
things Beardsley did were ugly; many 
of the things Botticelli did were supremely 
beautiful. 

Yet in all of Botticelli's work there is 
a tinge of melancholy — a shade of dis- 
appointment. The Spring is a sad pic- 
ture. On the faces of his tall, fine, 
graceful girls there is a hectic flush. Their 
cheeks are hollow, and you feel that their 
beauty is already beginning to fade. Like 
fruit too much loved by the sun, they are 
ready to fall. 



H Uinge 

of /IDelans 

cbols 



I04 



Xlttle 5ournei5s 



SBottfceUf 
tbe %ovcv 



Botticelli had the true love nature. By 
instinct he was a lover, the proof of which 
lies in the fact that he was deeply re- 
ligious. The woman he loved he has 
pictured over and over again. The touch 
of sorrow is ever in her wan face, but she 
possessed a silken strength, a heroic nature, 
a love that knew no turning. She had 
faith in Botticelli, and surely he had faith 
in her. For forty years she was in his 
heart; at times he tried to dislodge her 
and replace her image by another; but 
he never succeeded and the last Madonna 
he drew is the same wistful, loving, patient 
face — sad yet proud, strong yet infinitely 
tender. 



VI 



1^5 



IN THAT piece of lapidary work, " How 
Sandro Botticelli saw Simonetta in the 
Spring is a bit of heart psychology which, 
I believe, has never been surpassed in 
English. 

Simonetta, of the noble house of Ves- 
pucci, was betrothed to Giuliano, brother 
of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Simonetta 
was tall, stately, — beautiful as Venus, 
wise as Minerva, and proud as Juno. She 
knew her worth, realised her beauty, and 
feeling her power made others feel it, too. 

On a visit to the villa of the Medici at 
Fiesole she first saw Sandro Botticelli at 
an evening assembly in the gardens. She 
had heard of the man and knew his genius. 
When they suddenly met face to face 
under the boughs, she noted how her 
beauty startled him. His gaze ranged 



Ube 
meeting 



io6 



Xtttle 3ourne^0 



XLbe Battle 
JFougbt 



the exquisite lines of her tall form, then 
sought the burnished gold of her hair. 
Their eyes met. 

First of all this man was an artist : the 
art-instinct in him was supreme: after 
that he was a lover. 

Simonetta saw he had looked upon 
her merely as a "subject." She was both 
pleased and angry. She too loved art, 
but she loved love more. She was a 
woman. 

They separated, and Simonetta inward- 
ly compared the sallow, slavish scion of a 
proud name, to whom she was betrothed, 
with this God's nobleman whom she had 
just met. Giuliano's words were full of 
soft flattery; this man uttered an oath 
of surprise under his breath, on first seeing 
her, and treated her almost with rudeness. 

She fought the battle out there, alone, 
leaning against a tree, listening to the 
monotonous voice of a poet who was read- 
ing from Plato. She felt the disinterested 
greatness of Sandro, she knew the grandeur 
of his intellect — she was filled with a desire 
to be of service to him. Certainly she 
did not love him — a social abyss separated 
them — but could not her beauty and 



JSotttcelli 



107 



power in some way be allied with his, so 
that the world should be made better? 

"Shame is of the brute dullard who 
thinks shame,'* came the resonant voice 
of the reader. The words rang in her 
ears. Sandro was greater than the mere 
flesh — she would be, too. She would pose 
for him, and thus give her beautiful body 
to the world — ^beauty is eternal. Her 
action would bless and benefit the cen- 
turies yet to come. She was the most 
beautiful of women — he the greatest of 
artists. It was an opportunity sent from 
the gods! 

Instantly she half ran, seeking the 
painter. She found him standing apart, 
alone. She spoke eagerly and hotly, 
fearing her courage would falter before 
she could make known her wish: 

*' Ecco, Messer Sandro," she whispered, 
casting a furtive look about — ''who is 
there in Florence like me?'* 

"There is no one," calmly answered 
Sandro. 

" I will be your Lady Venus," she went 
on breathlessly, stepping closer — "You 
shall paint me rising from the sea!" . . . 



Hn ©ps 
portunitB 



io8 



Xtttle Sourness 



Hrtist's 



Very early the next morning, before 
the household was astir, Sandro entered 
the apartments of the Lady Simonetta. 
She was awaiting him, leaning with feigned 
carelessness against the balustrade, arrayed 
from head to toe in a rose-coloured mantle. 
One bare foot peeped forth from under the 
folds of the robe. 

Neither spoke a word. 

Sandro arranged his easel, spread his 
crayons on the table, and looked about the 
room making calculations as to light. 

He motioned her to a certain spot. 
She took the position, and as he picked 
up a crayon and examined it carelessly, 
she raised her arms and the robe fell at 
her feet. 

Sandro faced her, and saw the tall 
delicate form, palpitating before him. 
The rays of the morning sun swept in 
between the lattices and kissed her shoulder, 
face, and hair. 

For an instant the artist was in abeyance. 
Then from under his breath he exclaimed, 
"Holy Virgin! what a line! Stay as 
you are, I implore you — swerve not a 
hair's breadth, and soon you shall be 
mine forever!" 



JSotticellt 



109 



The pencil broke under his impetuous 
stroke. He seized another and worked 
at headlong speed. The woman watched 
him with eyes dilated. She was agitated, 
and the pink of her fair skin came and 
went. Her face grew pale, and she swayed 
like a reed. All the time she watched the 
artist, fearfully. She was at his mercy! 

Ah God! he was only an artist with the 
biggest mouth in all Florence! She noted 
how he tossed the hair from his eyes every 
moment. She saw the heavy jaw, the 
great broad-spreading feet, the powerful 
chest. His smothered exclamations as 
he worked filled her with scorn. What 
had she done? Who was she, anyway, 
that she should thus bare her beauty 
before such a creature? He had not even 
spoken to her! Was she only a thing? 

She grew deadly pale and reeled as she 
stood there. Two big tears chased each 
other down her cheeks. The painter 
looking up saw other tears glistening on 
her lashes. 

He noted her distress. 

He dropped his crayon and made a 
motion as if to advance to her relief. 

A few moments before and he might 



Hrtist's 



no 



Xtttle Soutnei^s 



Xife 
iSurned out 



have folded her mantle about her and 
assisted her to a seat — ^then they would 
have talked, reassured each other, and 
been mutually understood. To be under- 
stood — ^to be appreciated — ^that is it! 

It was too late, now — she hated him. 

As he advanced she recovered herself. 

She pointed her finger to the door, and 
bade him begone. 

Hastily he huddled his belongings into 
a parcel and without looking up, passed 
out of the door. She heard his steps 
echoing down the stairway, and soon from 
out the lattice she saw him walk across the 
court and disappear. He did not look up ! 

She threw herself upon her couch, 
buried her face in the pillows and burst 
into tears. 



In one short week word came to Sandro 
that Simonetta was dead — a mysterious 
quick fever of some kind — she had refused 
all food — ^the doctors could not understand 
it — ^the fever had just burned her life out! 

Let Maurice Hewlett tell the rest : 

They carried dead Simonetta through the 
streets of Florence with her pale face uncovered 
and a crown of myrtle in her hair. People 



3BotttcelU 



III 



thronging there held their breath, or wept 
to see such still loveliness ; and her poor part- 
ed lips wore a patient little smile, and her 
eyelids were pale violet and lay heavy on her 
cheek. White, like a bride, with a heavy nose- 
gay of orange-blossom and syringa at her 
throat, she lay there on her bed with lightly 
folded hands and the strange aloofness and 
preoccupation all the dead have. Only her 
hair burned about her like molten copper. 

The great procession swept forward; black 
brothers of Misericordia, shrouded and awful, 
bore the bed or stalked before it with torches 
that guttered and flared sootily in the dancing 
Hght of day. . . . 

Santa Croce, the great church, stretched 
forward beyond her into distances of grey 
mist and cold spaces of light. Its bare vast- 
ness was damp like a vault. And she lay 
in the midst, listless, heavy-lidded, apart, 
with the half smile, as it seemed, of some 
secret mirth. Round her the great candles 
smoked and flickered, and mass was sung 
at the high altar for her soul's repose. 

Sandro stood alone facing the shining 
altar, but looking fixedly at Simonetta on 
her couch. He was white, with dry-parched 
lips and eyes that ached and smarted. Was 
this the end? Was it possible, my God! 
that the transparent unearthly thing lying 



Simon* 

etta'8 

afuneral 



112 



Xlttle Journei^s 



H 2)ream 
fn Dalf 

Uones 



there so prone and pale was dead? Had such 
loveliness aught to do with life or death? 
Ah! sweet lady, dear heart, how tired she 
was, how deadly tired! From where he 
stood, he could see with intolerable anguish 
the sombre rings around her eyes and the 
violet shadows on the lids, her folded hands 
and the straight meek line to the feet. And 
her poor wan . face with its wistful pitiful 
little smile was turned half aside on the 
delicate throat, as if in a last appeal: — 
** Leave me now, O Florentines, to my rest." 
Poor child! Poor child! Sandro was on his 
knees with his face pressed against the pulpit 
and tears running through his fingers as he 
prayed. . . . 

As he had seen her, so he painted. As at 
the beginning of life in a cold world, passively 
meeting the long trouble of it, he painted 
her a rapt Presence floating evenly to our 
earth. A grey, translucent sea laps silently 
upon a little stream and, in the hush of a 
still dawn, the myrtles and sedges on the 
water's brim are quiet. It is a dream in 
half tones that he gives us, grey and green 
and steely blue; and just that, and some 
homely magic of his own, hint the commerce 
of another world with man's discarded 
domain. Men and women are asleep, and 
as in an early walk you may startle the 



Botticellt 



113 



hares at their play, or see the creatures 
of the darkness — owls and night hawks 
and heavy moths — flit with fantastic purpose 
over the familiar scene, so here it comes upon 
3^ou suddenly that you have surprised 
nature's self at her mysteries; you are let 
into the secret; you have caught the spirit 
of the April woodland as she glides over the 
pasture to the copse. And that, indeed, 
was Sandro's fortune. He caught her in 
just such a propitious hour. He saw the 
sweet wild thing, pure and undefiled by 
touch of earth; caught her in that pregnant 
pause of time ere she had lighted. Another 
moment and a buxom nymph of the grove 
would fold her in a rosy mantle, coloured as 
the earliest wood-anemones are. She would 
vanish, we know, into the daffodils or a bank 
of violets. And you might tell her presence 
there, or in the rustle of the myrtles, or coo 
of doves mating in the pines; you might feel 
her genius in the scent of the earth or the 
kiss of the west wind; but you could only 
see her in mid-April, and you should look 
for her over the sea. She always comes with 
the first warmth of the year. But daily, 
before he painted, Sandro knelt in a dark 
chapel in Santa Croce, while a priest said 
mass for the repose of Simonetta's soul. 



Spirit of 
tbe april 
'CGloo6Ian^ 



114 



VII 



**nomoia» r^ EORGE ELIOT gives many a side- 
vJ glimpse of the art life of Florence in 
the days of the luxury-loving Medici. She 
saturated herself in Italian literature and 
history, and the days of Era Angelico, 
Era Lippo Lippi, and Era Girolamo Savon- 
arola are bodied forth from lines deeply, 
etched upon her heart. 

When you go to Florence carry Romola 
in your side-pocket, just as you take 
the Marble Faun to Rome. The book 
is sad, but on the theory that like cures 
like, you will find to read something sad 
in a sad city will enlighten your spirits. 
And certainly it will make history live 
again and pass before your gaze. The 
story is unmistakably high art, for from 



Botticelli 



115 



the opening lines of the poem you hear 
the slow, measured wing of death; and 
after you have read the volume, forever, 
for you, will the smoke of martyr fires 
ho\er about the Piazza Signoria, and 
from the gates of San Marco you will see 
emerge that little man in black robe and 
cowl, — that homely, repulsive man with 
the curved nose, the protruding lower lip, 
the dark leathery skin — that man who 
lured and fascinated by his poise and 
power, whose words were whips of scor- 
pions that stung his enemies until they had 
to silence him by a rope ; and as a warning 
to those whom he had hypnotised, they 
burned his swart, shrunken body in the 
public square, just as he had burned their 
books and pictures. 

Sandro Botticelli, the painter, who 
made sensuality beautiful, ugliness se- 
ductive, and the sin-stained soul at- 
tractive, renounced all and followed the 
monk of San Marco — sensuality and as- 
ceticism at the least are one. When 
the procession headed for the Piazza 
Signoria, where the fagots were piled high, 
Sandro stood afar off and his heart was 
wrung in anguish, as he saw the glare 



IRenunciaa 
tion 



ii6 



Xlttle 5ournei?0 



iSictc 
JSristence 



of the flames gild the eastern sky. And 
this anguish was not for the friends who 
had perished — no, no, it was for himself: 
the thought that he was unworthy of 
martyrdom filled his mind — ^he had fallen 
at the critical moment. Basely and cra- 
venly he had saved himself. By saving 
all he lost all. To lose one's self-respect 
is the only calamity. Sandro Botticelli 
had failed to win the approval of his 
other self — and this is defeat, and there 
is none other. He might have sent his 
soul to God on the wings of victory, in 
glorious company, but now it was too late 
— ^too late! 

From this time forth he ceased to live 
— he merely existed. Into his soul there 
occasionally shot gleams of sunshine, but 
his nerveless hands refused to do the 
bidding of his brain. He stood on 
crutches, hat in hand, at church doors, 
and asked for alms. Sometimes he would 
make bold to tell people of wonderful 
pictures within, over the altar or upon 
the walls; and he would say that they 
were his, and then the hearers would 
laugh aloud, and ask him to repeat his 
words, that others too might hear and 



:BotttcelU 117 



laugh. Thus dwindled the passing days; ^^^*^ 
and for him who had painted the glorious 
Spring, there came the chilling neglect 
of winter, until death in mercy laid an icy 
hand upon him. And he was still. 



THORWALDSEN 



119 



121 



See the hovering ships on the wharves! The 
Dannebrog waves, the workmen sit in circle under 
the shade at their frugal breakfasts; but foremost 
stands the principal figure in this picture; it is a 
boy who cuts with a bold hand the life-like features 
in the wooden image for the beakhead of the vessel. 
It is the ship's guardian spirit, and, as the first 
image from the hand of Albert Thorwaldsen, it 
shall wander out into the wide world. The swelling 
sea shall baptise it with its waters, and hang its 
wreaths of wet plants around it; nor night, nor 
storm, nor icebergs, nor sunken rocks shall lure it 
to its death, for the Good Angel that guards the 
boy shall, too, guard the ship upon which with 
mallet and chisel he has set his mark. 



Sbfp's 

(Buar^ian 

Spirit 



Hans Christian Andersen. 



123 



THE real business-like biographer be- 
gins by telling when his subject 
"first saw the light" — ^by which he means 
when the man was bom. In this in- 
stance we will go a bit farther back and 
make note of the interesting fact that 
Thorwaldsen was descended from an an- 
cestor who had the rare fortune to be 
bom in Rhode Island, in the year 1007. 

Wiggling, jiggling, piggling individuals 
with quibbling proclivities, and an in- 
capacity for distinguishing between fact 
and truth, may maintain that there was 
no Rhode Island in the year 1007. Emer- 
son has written, *' Nothing is of less im- 
portance on account of its being small." 
And so I maintain that in the year 1007, 
Rhode Island was just where it is now, 



Hmedcan 
Bnccstrs 



124 



Xittle Journeys 



•feonoureb 

tot 
Bnccstrs 



and to the Cosmos quite as important. 
Let Pawtucket protest and Providence 
bite the thumb — no retraction will be 
made ! 

About the year 1815, the Secretary of 
the Rhode Island Historical Society wrote 
Thorwaldsen informing him that he 
had been elected an honorary member 
of the society, on account of his being 
the only known living descendant of 
the first European white man born in 
America. 

Thorwaldsen replied, expressing his great 
delight in the honour conferred, and 
touched feelingly on the fact that while he 
had been elected to membership in various 
societies in consideration of what he had 
done, this was the first honour that had 
come his way on account of his ancestry. 
To a friend he said, " How would we 
ever know who we are, or where we came 
from were it not for the genealogical 
savants ! 

In a book called American Antiqui- 
ties, now in the library at Harvard 
College, and I suppose accessible in various 
other libraries, there is a genealogical 
table tracing the ancestry of Thorwaldsen. 



UborwalOsen 



125 



It seems that in the year 1006, one Thor- 
finne, an Icelander whaler, commanded 
a ship which traversed the broad Atlantic, 
and skirted the coast of New England. 
Thorfinne wintered his craft in one of the 
little bays of Rhode Island and spent the 
winter at Mount Hope, where the marks 
of his habitat endure even unto this 
day. 

The statement to the effect that when 
the Indians saw the ships of Columbus, 
they cried out, "Alas, we are discovered!" 
goes back to a much earlier period, like 
many another of Mark Twain's gladsome 
scintillations. So little did Thorfinne and 
his hardy comrades think of crossing the 
Atlantic in search of adventure, that they 
used to take their families along, as though 
it were a picnic. And so fate ordered 
that Gudrid, the good wife of Thorfinne, 
should give birth to a son, there at Mount 
Hope, Rhode Island, in the year 1007. 
And they called the baby boy Snome. 
And to Snome the American, the pedigree 
of Thorwaldsen traces. 

In a lecture on the Icelandic Sagas I 
once heard William Morris say that all 
really respectable Icelanders traced their 



Snome 

tbe 

Hmerican 



126 



Xtttle Joutneps 



Origin of 
tbe tRame 



genealogy to a king, and many of them to 
a god. Thorwaldsen did both — first to 
Harold Hildestand, King of Denmark, and 
then with the help of several kind old 
gran'mamas, to the god Thor. 

His love for mythology was an atavism. 
In childhood the good old aunties used 
to tell him how the god Thor once trod 
the earth and shattered the mountains 
with his hammer. From Thor and the 
World his first ancestor was born, so the 
family name was Thor-vald. The ap- 
pendix ''sen" or son means that the man 
was the son of Thorwald; and in some 
way the name got ossified like the name 
Robinson, Parkinson, Peterson, or Albert- 
son; and then it was Thorwaldsen. 

Men who are strong in their own natures 
are very apt to smile at the good folk who 
chase the genealogical anise-seed trail — 
it is a harmless diversion with no game 
at the end of the route. And on the other 
hand, all men like Thorwaldsen, who 
reach cosmic consciousness, recognise their 
divine sonship. Such men feel that their 
footsteps are mortised and tenoned in 
granite; and the Power that holds the 
worlds in space and guides the wheeling 



Ii:borwalt)sen 



127 



planets, also prompts their thoughts and 
directs their devious way. They know 
that they are a necessary part of the whole. 
Small men are provincial, mediocre men 
are cosmopolitan, but great souls are 
universal. 



Small flDen 
an5 ©reat 



128 



II 



3Bfrtb of 

:ffiertel 
XEbors 



TWO islands, one city, and the open sea 
claim the honour of being the birth- 
place of Bertel Thorwaldsen. The date of 
his birth ranges, according to the authori- 
ties, from 1770 to 1773 — take your choice. 
His father was an Icelander who had 
worked his passage down to Copenhagen 
and had found his stint as a wood- carver 
in a shipyard where it was his duty to 
carve out wonderful figure-heads, after 
designs made by others. Gottschalk Thor- 
waldsen never thought to improve on a 
model, or change it in any way, or to 
model a figurehead himself. The cold 
of the north had chilled any ambition 
that was in his veins. Goodsooth! Such 
work as designing figure-heads was only 
for those who had been to college, and 
who could read and write! So he worked 



XTborwalDsen 



129 



away, day after day, and by the help 
of the good wife's foresight and economy 
managed to keep out of debt, pay his 
tithes at church, and lead a decent life. 

Little Bertel used to remember when, 
like the Peggottys, they lived in an 
abandoned canal boat that had been 
tossed up on the beach. Bertel carried 
chips and shavings from the shipyard for 
fuel and piled them against the "house." 
One night the tide came up in a very 
unexpected manner and carried the chips 
away, for the sea is so very hungry that it 
is always sending the tide in to shore after 
things. It was quite a loss for the poor 
wood-carver and his wife to have all their 
winter fuel carried away; so they cuffed 
little Bertel soundly (for his own good) 
for not piling the chips up on the deck 
of the boat, instead of leaving them on 
the shifting sand. 

This was the first great cross that came 
to Bertel. He had a few others afterward, 
but he never forgot the night of anguish 
and the feeling of guilt that followed the 
losing of the shavings and chips. 

Some weeks after another high tide 
came sweeping in, and lapped and sniffed 



3f irst ©reat 

QtOSS 



I30 



Xtttle Joutneps 



Seconb 
Calamity 



and sighed around the canal boat as if it 
were trying to tug it loose and carry the 
old craft and all the family out to sea. 
Little Bertel hoped the tide would fetch 
it, for it would be kind o' nice to get clear 
out away from everybody and everything 
— where there were no chips to pick up. 
His mother could supply a quilt for a 
mainsail and he would use his shirt for a 
jib and they would steer straight for 
America — or somewhere. 

But lest the dream should come true, 
Gottschalk and his wife talked the matter 
over and concluded to abandon the boat, 
before it got sunk into the sand quite out 
of sight. So the family moved into a 
little house on an alley, half a mile away 
from the shipyard — it was an awful long 
way to carry chips. 

The second calamity that came into 
the life of little Bertel was when he was 
eight years old. He and several com- 
panions were playing about the King's 
Market, where there was an equestrian 
statue of Charles V. The boys climed up 
on the pedestal, cut various capers there, 
and finally they challenged Bertel to mount 
the horse behind the noble rider. By dint 



^borwalDsen 



131 



of much boosting from several boys older 
than himself, he was at last perched on 
the horse. Then his companions made 
hot haste to run away and leave him in 
his perilous position. Just then, as un- 
kind fate would have it, a pair of gendarmes 
came along on the lookout for anything 
that might savour of sedition, contumacy, 
or contravention. They found it in little 
Bert el clutching tearfully to the royal 
person of Charles V., twelve feet above 
the ground. Quickly they rushed the lad 
off to the police station, between them, 
each with a firm grip upon his collar. 

Victor Hugo once said, " The minions of 
the law go stolidly after vice, and not find- 
ing it, they stolidly take virtue instead." 

Besides an awful warning "never to do 
this thing again" from a judge in a fero- 
cious wig, the boy got a flogging at home, 
(for his own good) although his father 
first explained that it was a very painful 
duty to himself to be obliged to punish 
his son. The son volunteered to excuse 
the father, and this brought the youngster 
ten extra lashes for being so smart. 

Long years after, at Rome, Thorwaldsen 
told the story to Hans Christian Andersen 



Caugbt fn 
tS^iscbicf 



132 



Xtttle Journei^s 



H 
Confession 



about being caught astride the great bronze 
horse at Copenhagen, and of the awful 
reprimand of the judge bewigged. 

''And honestly now — I'll never tell" — 
said Andersen with a sly twinkle in his 
blue eyes, '* did you ever repeat the offence ? ' ' 

''Since you promise not to divulge it, 
I '11 confess that forty-three years after 
my crime of mounting that horse, I had 
occasion to cross King's Market Square 
at midnight. I had been out to a little 
social gathering, and was on my way home 
alone. I saw the great horse and rider gleam- 
ing in the pale moonlight. I recalled 
vividly how I had occupied that elevated 
perch and been hauled down by the 
scandalised and indignant officers. I re- 
membered the warning of the judge as to 
what would happen if I ever did it again. 
Hastily I removed my coat and hat and 
clambered up on the pedestal. I seized 
a leg of the royal person, and swung up 
behind. For five minutes I sat there 
mentally defying the State, and saying 
unspeakable things about all gendarmes 
and Copenhagen gendarmes in particular." 



Ill 



^33 



I HAVE a profound respect for boys. 
Grimy, ragged, tousled boys in the 
street often attract me strangely. A boy is 
a man in the cocoon — you do not know 
what it is going to become — ^his life is 
big with possibilities He may make or 
unmake kings, change boundary lines 
between states, write books that will mould 
characters, or invent machines that will 
revolutionise the commerce of the world. 
Every man was a boy — I trust I will not 
be contradicted — ^it is really so. Would n't 
you like to turn time backward, and see 
Abraham Lincoln at twelve, when he 
had never worn a pair of boots? — the 
lank, lean, yellow, hungry boy — hungry 
for love, hungry for learning, tramping 
off through the woods for twenty miles 
to borrow a book, and spelling it out 



a lASos 



134 



Xittle Journeys 



Ubc 
Corsfcan 
3Bos an6 
OtbCKS 



crouching before the glare of the burning 
logs. 

Then there was that Corsican boy, one 
of a goodly brood, who weighed only fifty 
pounds when ten years old ; who was thin 
and pale and perverse, and had tantrums, 
and had to be sent supperless to bed, or 
locked in a dark closet because he would n't 
"mind!" Who would have thought that 
he would have mastered every phase 
of warfare at twenty-six, and when told 
that the Exchequer of France was in dire 
confusion, would say, ''The finances? I 
will arrange them!" 

Distinctly and vividly I remember a 
squat, freckled boy who was bom in the 
''Patch" and used to pick up coal along 
the railroad tracks in Buffalo. A few 
months ago I had a motion to make before 
the Court of Appeals. That boy from 
the "Patch" was the judge who wrote 
the opinion, granting my petition. 

Yesterday I rode horseback past a field 
where a boy was ploughing. The lad's hair 
stuck out through the top of his hat; 
one suspender held his trousers in place; 
his form was bony and awkward; his bare 
legs and arms were brown and sunburned 



TTborwalbsen 



135 



and briar-scarred. He swung his horses 
around just as I passed by, and from under 
the flapping brim of his hat he cast a quick 
glance out of dark, half-bashful eyes, and 
modestly returned my salute. When his 
back was turned I took off my hat and 
sent a God-bless-you down the furrow 
after him. 

Who knows? — I may go to that boy to 
borrow money yet, or to hear him preach, 
or to beg him to defend me in a lawsuit; 
or he may stand with pulse unhastened, 
bare of arm, in white apron, ready to do 
his duty, while the cone is placed over my 
face, and night and death come creeping 
into my veins. Be patient with the boys 
— you are dealing with soul-stuff — Destiny 
awaits just around the comer. Be patient 
with the boys! 



TKPlbo 
•Knows 7 



136 



IV 



jFourtecn 



BERTEL THORWALDSEN was four- 
teen years old. He was pale and 
slender, and had a sharp chin and a straight 
nose and hair the colour of sunburned tow. 
His eyes were large, set wide apart and 
bright blue ; and he looked out upon the 
world silently, with a sort o' wistful mel- 
ancholy. He helped his father carve out 
the w^onderful figureheads that were to 
pilot the ships across strange seas and 
bring good luck to the owners. 

" A boy like that should be sent to the 
Academy and taught designing" said one 
of the shipowners one day as he watched 
the lad at his work. Gottschalk shook 
his head dubiously. " How could a poor 
man, with a family to support, and 
provisions so high, spare his boy from 



X^bor^val^5en 



work! Aye, wasn 't he teaching the lad 
a trade, himseh, as it was ? ' ' 

But the shipowner fumbled his fob, 
and insisted, and to test the boy, he had 
him work with his designers. And he 
compromised with the father by having 
Bert el sent to the Academy haK a day at 
a time. 

At the school one of the instructors re- 
membered Bert el, on account of his long 
yellow hair that hung down in his eyes 
when he leaned over the desk; also his 
dulness in even.- line except drawing 
and clay-modelling. The newspapers one 
day annoimced that a certain young 
Master Thorwaldsen had been awarded 
a prize for clay-modelling. " Is that 
your brother?" asked the teacher next 
day. '* It is myself, Herr Chaplain," replied 
the boy, blushing to the roots of his yeUow 
hair. 

The chaplain coughed to conceal his 
surprise. He had always thought this 
boy incapable of anything. '' Herr 
Thorwaldsen," he said, severely, " you 
^ill please pass to the first grade ! " 
And to be addressed as "Herr" meant 
that vou reallv were somebodv. " He 



a prijc 



138 



Xtttle Sournei^s 



Ube IRigbt 

Stuff in 

Ibim 



called me ' Herr,' " said Bertel to his 
mother that night — " He called me 
'Herr!'" 

About this time we find the painter 
Abildgaard taking a special interest in 
young Bertel, giving him lessons in draw- 
ing and painting, and encouraging him 
in his modelling. In fact Thorwaldsen 
has himself explained that all of his " orig- 
inal" designs about this time were sup- 
plied by Abildgaard. The interest of 
Abildgaard in the boy was slightly resented 
by the young man's parents, who were 
afraid that their son was getting above 
his station. Abildgaard has left a record 
to the effect that at this time Thorwaldsen 
was very self-contained, reticent, and 
seemingly without ambition. He used 
to postpone every task, and would shirk 
his duties until often sharp reminders 
came. Yet when he did begin, he would 
fall on the task like one possessed and 
finish it in an hour. This proved to 
Abildgaard that the stuff was there, and 
down in his heart he believed that this 
sleepy lad would some day awake from 
slumber. Anyway, Abildgaard used to 
say, long years after, "What did I tell 



Uborwalbsen 



139 



you?" Gottschalk was paid by the piece 
for his carving; he was getting better 
pay now, because he did better work, 
his employer thought. Bertel was help- 
ing him. The family was getting quite 
prosperous. 



Iptospeting 



I40 



H T X 7HEN Bert el had secured between 

ipofnt ' ^ sleepy spells, about all the prizes 

for clay-modelling and sketching that ar- 
tistic Copenhagen had to offer, he started 
for Rome, armed with a three-years' trav- 
elling scholarship. This prize proved to be 
a pivotal point. The young man had done 
good work, and seemingly without effort; 
but he was sadly lacking in general educa- 
tion and worse — apparently he had no de- 
sire to learn. 

He was twenty-six years of age when 
he sailed for Rome on the good ship 
Thetis. The scholarship he had won four 
years before, but through disinclination 
to press his claims, and the procrastina- 
tion of officialism, the matter was pigeon- 
holed. It might have gone by default 
had not Abildgaard said, "Go!" and 
loudly. 



xrbotwalt)sen 



141 



Thorwaldsen was a sort of charity 
passenger on the ship, — taken on request 
of the owner, — and it was assumed that 
he would make himself useful. But the 
captain of the craft left him a recommenda- 
tion to the effect that '* The young fellow 
Thorwaldsen is the laziest man I ever 
saw." The ship was on a trading tour 
and lingered along various coasts and put 
into many harbours ; so nine months went 
by before Bert el Thorwaldsen found him- 
self in the Eternal City. 

"I was bom March 8, 1797/' Thor- 
waldsen used to say. That was the day 
he reached Rome. His scholarship provid- 
ed for a three years' residence — ^but twenty- 
three years were to elapse before he should 
again see Copenhagen; and as for his 
parents, he had looked into their eyes 
for the last time. 



Hrrives at 
IRome 



142 



VI 

TKflasteb 'T^HE soul grows by leaps and bounds, 
tmitt A by throes and throbs. A flash! and a 
glory stands revealed for which you have 
been blindly groping through the years. 
Well did Thorwaldsen call the day of his 
arrival in Rome the day of his birth ! For 
the first time the world seemed to unfold 
before him. On the voyage thither, the 
captain of the Thetis had offered to 
prepare him for his stay in Rome by teach- 
ing him the Italian language, but the 
young sculptor was indifferent. During 
the months he was on shipboard, he might 
have mastered the language — ^this came 
back to him as he stood in the presence 
of St. Peter's, and realised that he was 
treading the streets once trod by Michael 
Angelo. He spoke only ''Sailor's Latin," 
a composite of Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, 



Uborwalbsen 



43 



and Icelandic. The waste of time of which 
he had been guilty, and the extent of 
all that lay beyond, pressed home upon 
him. 

Of course we know that the fallow years 
are as good as the years of plenty — the 
silent winter prepares the soil for spring; 
and we know, too, that the sense of un- 
worthiness and the discontent that Thor- 
waldsen felt during his first few weeks 
at Rome, were big with promise. 

The antique world was a new world 
to him; he knew nothing of mythology; 
nothing of history; little of books. He 
began to thirst for knowledge, and this 
being true, he drank it in. Little men 
spell things out with sweat and lamp- 
smoke, but others there be who absorb 
in the mass, read by the page, and grow 
great by simply letting down their buckets. 

This fair-haired descendant of a Viking 
bold had the usual preliminary struggle, 
for the Established Order is always re- 
sentful toward pressing youth. He work- 
ed incessantly; sketched, read, studied, 
modelled, and to help out his finances, 
copied pictures for prosperous dealers who 
made it their business thus to employ 



'OQlorI> 

©pens to 

Ibtm 



\ 



144 



Xtttle Sournei^s 



3Frfen50 



'prentice talent. But a few years and 
we see Bertel Thorwaldsen occupying the 
studio of Flaxman, and more than filHng 
that strong man's place. For specimens 
of Flaxman 's work examine your " Wedg- 
wood"; and then to see Thorwaldsen's 
product, multiply Flaxman by one hund- 
red. One worked in the delicate and 
exquisite; the other had a taste for the 
heroic: both found inspiration in the 
Greek. 

It will not do to claim for Thorwald- 
sen that he was a great and original 
genius. He lacked that hirsute, independ- 
ent quality of Michael Angelo, and surely 
he lacked the Attic invention. He was 
receptive as a woman, and he builded on 
what had been done. He moved in the 
line of least resistance — made friends of 
Protestant and Catholic alike; won the 
warm recognition of the Pope, who 
averred, '* Thorwaldsen is a good Catholic, 
only he does not know it." He kept clear 
of factions, and with a modicum more 
will, might have been a very prince of 
diplomats. As it was, he evolved into 
a prince of artists. 



i 



VII 



145 



SOON after his advent in Rome, Thor- 
waldsen met at the country house of 
his friend, critic, and benefactor Zoega, a 
young woman who was destined to have a 
profound influence upon his Hfe. Anna 
Maria Magnani was lady's maid and gover- 
ness in the Zoega household. She was a 
beautiful animal — dark, luminous, flashing 
eyes, hair black as the raven's wing, and a 
form that palpitated with passion — a true 
daughter of the warm, sun-kissed south. 

The young sculptor of the yellow locks 
danced with the signorina at the rus- 
tic fetes upon the lawn. She spoke no 
English, and his Italian was exceedingly 
limited, but hand pressed hand and they 
contrived to make themselves understood. 
She volunteered to give him lessons in 
Italian; this went well and then she 
posed for him as a model. 



Ube Jl?oung 
Signorina 



146 Xtttle Journeys 



ufes What should have been at best or 

3Brofeen 

worst a mere incident in the artist's life 
ripened into something more. Intellect- 
ually and spiritually they lived in different 
worlds, and in sober moments both realised 
it. An arrangement was entered into of 
the same quality and kind as Goethe and 
Christiana Vulpius assumed. Only this 
woman had moments of rebellion when she 
thirsted for social honours. As his wife, 
Thorwaldsen knew that she would be a 
veritable dead-weight and he sought to 
loosen her grasp upon him. An offer of 
marriage came to her from a man of means 
and social station. Thorwaldsen favoured 
the mating and did what he could to hasten 
the nuptials. But when the other man 
had actually married the girl and carried 
her away, he had a sick spell to pay for it 
— ^he was n't quite so calloused in heart 
as he had believed. Like many other 
men Thorwaldsen found that such a tie 
is not easily broken. 

Anna Maria thought she loved the man 
she had married, and at last she believed 
she could learn to do so. Alas! After 
six months of married life she packed up 
and came home to Rome, declaring that 



xrborwalt)sen 



147 



though her husband was kind and always 
treated her well, she would rather be the 
slave and servant of Thorwaldsen than 
the wife of any man on earth. The 
sculptor had n't the heart to turn her 
away. More properly, her will was 
stronger than his conscience. Perhaps 
he was glad too, that she had come back! 
The injured husband followed and Anna 
Maria warned the man to begone, and 
emphasised the suggestion with the gleam 
of a pearl-handled stiletto; and by the 
same token kept all gushing females 
away from the Thorwaldsen preserve. 

Thorwaldsen never married, and there 
is no doubt that his engagement to Miss 
Mackenzie, a most excellent English lady, 
was vetoed by Anna Maria and her pearl- 
handled stiletto. 

One child was bom to Anna Maria and 
Thorwaldsen — a girl, who was legally ac- 
knowledged by Thorwaldsen as his daugh- 
ter. When prosperity came his way, 
some years later he deposited in the bank 
of Copenhagen a sum equal to twenty 
thousand dollars, with orders that the 
interest should be paid to her as long 
as she lived. 



Ubors 
waldsen'0 
Daughter 



Xlttle JournepB 



Btsatmed 



Unlike Byron's daughter Allegra, born 
the same year only a few miles away, 
who died young and for whose grave at 
Harrow the poet had carved the touching 
line, " I shall go to her, but she will not 
return to me," — ^the daughter of Thor- 
waldsen grew up, was happily married 
and bore a son who achieved considerable 
distinction as an artist. Thus the sculp- 
tor's good fortune attended him even in 
circumstances that work havoc in most 
men's lives — he disarmed the Furies with 
a smile! 



VIII 



149 



MANY visitors daily thronged the studio 
of Thorwaldsen . He had one general 
reception room containing casts of his 
work, and many curious things in the 
line of art. His servant greeted the 
callers and made them at home, expressing 
much regret at the absence of his master 
who was "out of the city," etc. Mean- 
while Thorwaldsen was hard at it in a 
back room to which only the elect were 
admitted. 

The King of Bavaria, a genuine artist 
himself in spirit, who spent much time in 
Rome, conceived a great admiration for 
Thorwaldsen. He walked into the atelier 
where the sculptor was at work one day 
and hung around his neck by a gold chain, 
the ''Cross of the Commander," a decora- 
tion never before given to any but great 
military commanders. 



B6m{re5 

b^e tbe 

IRfng of 

Savarta 



50 



Xtttle Sourneigs 



U General 
ffavourite 



King Louis had a very unkinglike way 
of doing things, and used to go by the 
studio and whistle for Thorwaldsen and 
call to him to come out and walk or drive, 
ride or dine. 

"I wish that King would go off and 
reign — I have work to do," once said the 
sculptor rather impatiently. 

Envious critics used to maintain that 
there were ten men in Rome who could 
model as well as Thorwaldsen, "but 
they have n't yellow hair that falls to their 
shoulders, and heaven-blue eyes with 
which to snare the ladies." 

The fact must be admitted that the 
vogue of Thorwaldsen owed much to the 
remarkable social qualities of the man. 
His handsome face and fine form were 
supplemented by a manner most gentle 
and winning; and whether his half- 
diffident ways, and habit of reticence were 
natural or the triumph of art, was a vexing 
problem that never found solution. 

He was the social rage in every salon. 
And his ability to do the right thing at 
the right time, seemingly without pre- 
meditation, made him a general favourite. 
For instance if he attended a fete given 



lUborwalbsen 



151 



by the King of Bavaria, he wore just one 
decoration — the decoration of Bavaria. 
If he attended a ball given by the French 
Embassador, in the lapel of his modest 
black velvet coat he wore the red ribbon 
that tokens the Legion of Honour. When 
he visited the Villa of the Grand Duchess 
Helena of Russia, he wore no jewel save 
the diamond-studded star presented to 
him by the Czar. At the reception given 
by the "English Colony" to Sir Walter 
Scott, the great sculptor wore a modest 
thistle blossom in his lapel, which caused 
Lord Elgin to offer odds that if O'Connell 
should appear in Rome, Thorwaldsen 
would wear a sprig of shamrock in his hat 
and say nothing. 

The thistle caught Sir Walter, and the 
next day when he came to call on the 
sculptor he saw a *' Tarn O'Shanter" hang- 
ing on the top of an easel and a bit of 
plaid scarf thrown carelessly across the 
corner of the picture below. The poet and 
the sculptor embraced, patting each other 
on the back, called each other "Brother" 
and smiled good will. But as Thorwaldsen 
could not speak English and Sir Walter 
spoke nothing else, they merely beamed 



Wccotaa 
itions 



152 



Xittle 5outnei^s 



Visitors 



and ran the scale of adjectives, thus: 
SubHmissimo ! Hero! Precious! Plaisir! 
La Grande! DeHghted! Splendide! Hon- 
ourable! Then they embraced again and 
backed away, waving each other good-bye. 

Thorwaldsen had more medals, degrees, 
and knighthoods than Sir Walter ever saw, 
but he would allow no prefix to his name. 
Denmark, Russia, Germany, Italy, France, 
and the Pope had outdone themselves in 
doing him honour. All these "trifles" in 
the way of decorations he kept in a 
prepared case, which was opened occasion- 
ally for the benefit of lady visitors. '' The 
girls like such things," said Thorwaldsen, 
and smiled in apology. 

Shelley found his way to Thorwaldsen 's 
studio, and made mention that the 
master was a bit of a poseur. Byron came, 
and as we know sat for that statue w^hich 
is now at Cambridge. The artist sought 
to beguile the melancholy sitter with 
pleasant conversation, but the author of 
Don Juan would none of it, and when 
the work was completed and unveiled 
before him, he exclaimed in disappoint- 
ment, " I look far more unhappy than 
that!" 



Uborvvalbsen 



^53 



Thorwaldsen was a musician of no 
mean quality, and there was always a 
piano in his studio, to which he often 
turned for rest. When Felix Mendelssohn 
was in Rome he made the sculptor's 
workshop his headquarters, and some- 
times the two would play ''four hands," 
or Thorwaldsen would accompany the 
Songs without Words upon his violin. 

Gradually the number of the ''elect" 
seemed to grow. It was regarded as a 
great sight to see the master at his work. 
And by degrees Thorwaldsen reached a 
point where he could keep right along 
at his task and receive his friends at the 
same time. 

The man at his work! there is nothing 
finer. I have seen men homely, uncouth, 
and awkward when "dressed up," who 
were superb when at their work. Once 
I saw Augustus St. Gaudens in blouse and 
overalls, well plastered with mud, stand- 
ing on a ladder hard at it on an equestrian 
statue, lost to everything but the task 
in hand — intoxicated with a thought, 
working like mad to materialise an idea. 
The sight gave me a thrill! — one of those 
very few unforgettable thrills that time 



Ube asian 
at bis 
Morh 



154 



Xtttle Journeys 



Ubc 

2)ucbC60 of 

Iparma 



fixes ever the more firmly in one's memory. 

To gain admittance to the work-room 
of Thorwaldsen was a thing to boast of — 
proud ladies schemed and some sought 
to bribe the trusty valet; but to these 
the door was politely barred. Yet the 
servant, servant-like, was awed by titles 
and nobility. 

"The Duchess of Parma!" whispered 
the valet one day in agitation — "The 
Duchess of Parma — she has followed me 
in and is now standing behind you!" 
Thorwaldsen could not just place the 
lady, — ^he turned, bowed, and gazed upon 
a stout personage slightly overdressed. 
The lady quite abruptly stated that she 
had called to make arrangements to have 
a statue, or a bust at least, made of her- 
self. The idea that Thorwaldsen would 
be proud to model her features seemed 
quite fixed in her mind. The artist cast 
her a swift glance and noted that nature 
had put small trace of the classic in the 
lady's modelling. He mentally declined 
the commission, and muttered something 
about being "so delighted and honoured, 
but unluckily I am so very busy," etc. 

"My husband desires it," continued 



ITbotwal^sen 



■55 



the lady, "and so does my son, the King 
of Rome — a title I hope that is not strange 
to you!" 

It swept over Thorwaldsen like a winter 
wave, that this big, brusque, bizarre 
woman before him w^as Maria Louisa, the 
second wife of Napoleon. He knew her 
history — wedded at nineteen to Napoleon 
— the mother of L'Aiglon at twenty — 
married again in unbecoming haste to 
the Count Niepperg Nobody, with whom 
she had been on very intimate terms, 
as soon as word arrived of the death of 
Napoleon at St. Helena; and now raising 
a goodly brood of Nobodies! The artist 
grew faint before this daughter of kings 
who had made a mesalliance with Genius 
— he excused himself and left the 
room. 

Thorwaldsen was a hero- worshipper by 
nature, and Napoleon's memory loomed 
large to him on the horizon of the ideal. 
Needless to say, he never modelled the 
features of Maria Louisa Hapsburg, but 
her visit fired him with a desire to make 
a bust of Napoleon, and the desire material- 
ised is ours in heroic mould. 

Sometime after this, Thorwaldsen de- 



U fbcvos 
sbippec 



156 



Xittle Sourness 



B 

©005 

Business 

ISian 



signed a monument to the Duke Leuch- 
tenberg, Eugene de Beauhamais, son of 
the Empress Josephine. 

The days went in their fashion, and 
the Count Niepperg passed away, as even 
counts do, for death recognises no title; 
and Maria Louisa was again experiencing 
the pangs of widowhood. She sent word 
for Thorwaldsen to come and design the 
late lamented a proper tomb, something 
not unlike that which he had done for 
the son of Josephine, — ^money was no 
object in the Hapsburg family! 

Very few commissions were declined 
by Thorwaldsen. He was a good business 
man and often had a dozen men quietly 
working out his orders, but he wrote to 
Maria Louisa begging to be excused — and 
as a relief to his feelings, straightway 
modelled another bust of Napoleon. This 
bust was sold to Alexander Murray, 
Byron's publisher, and is now to be seen 
in Edinburgh. Strange is it not, that 
the home of " The Scotch Greys," tumbled 
by fate and Napoleon into an open grave, 
should do the little man honour! And 
Thorwaldsen the man of peace, was bound 
to the man of war by the silken thread 



XTborwalbsen 



157 



of sentiment. Thorwaldsen was the true 
successor of Canova — his great career 
was inaugurated when Canova gave him 
his blessing. The triumphs of the lover 
of Pauline Bonaparte were transferred 
to him. He accepted the situation with 
all of its precedents. 



Successor 
of Canova 



158 



IX 



•obonoureb 'y»HORWALDSEN spent forty-two 
sjenmarft 1 years of his life at Rome, but Den- 
mark never lost her hold upon him 
during this time. The King showered 
him with honours and gave him every 
privilege at his command. 

The Danish Ambassador always had 
special instructions "not to neglect the 
interests and welfare of our brother, 
Chevalier Thorwaldsen, Artist and Sculptor 
to the King." 

For years, in the Academy at Copen- 
hagen, rooms were set apart for him, and 
he was solicited to return and occupy 
them, and oy his gracious presence honour 
the institution that had sent him forth. 
Only once, however, did he return, and 
then his stay was brief. But from time 
to time he presented specimens of his 



XTborwaltJsen 



159 



work to his native city, and various casts 
and copies of his pieces found their way 
to the "Thorwaldsen Room'* at the 
Academy; so there gradually grew up 
there a "Thorwaldsen Museum." 

Now the shadows were lengthening to- 
ward the west. The master had turned 
his seventieth milestone, and he began 
to look backward to his boyhood's home 
as a place of rest, as old men do. A 
commissioner was sent by the King of 
Denmark with orders to use his best offices 
to the end that Thorwaldsen should 
return; and plans were made to evolve 
the Thorwaldsen Room into a complete 
museum. 

The result of these negotiations brought 
about the Thorwaldsen Museum — ^that 
plainly simple, but solidly built structure 
at Copenhagen, erected by the city, from 
plans made by the master. Here are 
shown over two hundred large statues 
and bas-reliefs, copies and originals of 
the best things done in that long and 
busy life. 

Thorwaldsen left his medals, decorations, 
pictures, books, and thousands of drawings 
and sketches to this Museum — the sole 



Uborwalb: 

sen 
museum 



i6o 



Xlttle Journeps 



B jpfttfng 
Uomb 



property of the municipality. The build- 
ing is arranged in the form of a square, with 
a court; and here the dust of the master 
rests. No artist has ever had a more 
fitting tomb, designed by himself, sur- 
rounded by the creations of his hand 
and brain. These chant his elegy and 
there he sleeps. 



i6i 



X 



GOOD looks, courtesy, and social ac- -^^^^^ 
complishments are factors in our xcieaitb 
artistic career that should not be lightly 
waived. 

Thorwaldsen won every recognition that 
is possible for men to win from other men 
— fame, honour, wealth. In way of success 
he tasted all that the world can offer. 

He built on Wincklemann, Mengs, and 
Canova, inspired by a classic environ- 
ment, and examples of work done by men 
turned to dust centuries before. In many 
instances Thorwaldsen followed the letter 
and failed to catch the spirit of Greece — 
this is not to his discredit. Who has com- 
pletely succeeded in revitalising the breath 
of ancient art? 

Thorwaldsen won everything but immor- 
tality. It sounds harsh but let us admit 



l62 



Xlttle Sourness 



Great 
fmCtatoi: 



it, — he was at best a great imitator, 
however noble the objects of his imita- 
tion. A recent writer has tried to put 
him in the class with "John Rogers, the 
Pride of America" but this is manifestly 
unfair. As an artist he ranks rather with 
Powers, Story, and Palmer. Never for a 
moment can he be compared with St. 
Gaudens — our own French: Bartlett and 
Ward surpass him in general skill and 
fertility of resources. All is comparative 
— Thorwald sen's fame floats upon the 
wave, far astern. We are making head. 
We have that superb Night, so full 
of tenderness and spirit, done in tears 
(as all the best things are). The Night 
is not to be spoken of without its beautiful 
companion piece, the Morning. Each 
was done at a sitting, in a passion of 
creative energy. Yet when the roll of all 
Thorwaldsen's pieces is called, we see that 
his fame centres and is cheifly embodied 
in The Lion of Lucerne. 



XI 

T SUPPOSE it need not longer be con- 
1 cealed that in Switzerland you can 
purchase copies and models of Thorwald- 
sen's Lion of Lucerne. Some are in marble, 
some in granite, some in bronze, a great 
many are in wood — carved while you 
wait — and at my hotel in Lucerne we 
used to have the noble beast on the table 
every morning at breakfast, done in butter. 
The reproductions are of all sizes, 
from heroic mould to watch charms and 
bangles. Sculptors have carved this lion, 
painters have painted it, artists have 
sketched it, but did you ever see a re- 
production of The Lion of Lucernef No, 
dearie, you never did, and never will. 
No copy has a trace of that indefinable 
look of mingled pain and patience, which 
even the broken spear in his side cannot 
disturb — that soulful, human quality which 



163 



Ube X.fon 
of lucerne 



164 



Xittle Joutnei^s 



Bps 

propriatc 
Setting 



the original has. No, every copy is a 
caricature. It is a risky thing to try 
to put love in a lion's face! 

An intelligent young woman called my 
attention to the fact that the psychological 
conditions under which we view The 
Lion are the most subtle and complete 
that man can devise; and these are the 
things that add the last touch to art 
and cause us to stand speechless, and 
which make the unbidden tears start. 
The little lake at the foot of the cliff 
prevents a too near approach; the over- 
hanging vines and melancholy boughs 
form a dim, subduing shade; the falling 
water seems like the playing of an organ 
in a vast cathedral; and last, the position 
of the lion itself, against the solid cliff, 
partakes of the miraculous. It is not 
set up there for people to look at: it is a 
part of the mountain and the great seams 
of the strata running through the figure 
lend the spirit of miracle to it all. It 
seems as though God himself had done 
the work and the surprise and joy of 
discovery are ours, as we stand uncovered 
before it . 

One must concede the masterly framing 



Uborwalbsen 



165 



and hanging of the picture, but beyond 
all this is the technical skill, giving the look 
of woe that does not tell of weakness, as 
woe usually does, but strength and loyalty 
and death without flinching in a righteous 
cause— symbolic of the Swiss Guard that 
died at their post, not one of the three 
hundred wavering, there at the king's 
palace at Paris — all dead and turned to 
dust a century past, and this lion, mor- 
tally wounded, mutely pleading for our 
tears ! 

We pay the tribute. 

And the reason we are moved is because 
we partake of the emotions of the artist 
when he did the work; and the reason we 
are not moved by any models or copies 
or imitations is because there is small 
feeling in the heart of an imitator. Great 
art is bom of feeling! In order to do, 
you must feel. 

If Thorwaldsen had done nothing else, 
The Lion would be monument enough. 
We remember William Cullen Bryant, like 
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, for one poem; 
Poe for three. Thoreau wrote only one 
essay the world will cherish; and " keeping 
Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies and The Golden 



flSonument 
£nougb 



i66 



Xtttle 3otttnei?0 



■Beet XKHorft 



River we can let the rest go," says Augus- 
tine Birrell. 

Thorwaldsen paid the penalty of success. 
He should have tasted exile, poverty, and 
heart-break — not to have known these 
was his misfortune. And perhaps his 
best work lay in keeping alive the classic 
tradition; in educating whole nations to 
a taste for sculpture; in turning the at- 
tention of society from strife to art, 
from war to harmony. His were the 
serene successes of beauty, the triumphs 
of peace. 



THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH 



167 



169 



If ever this nation should produce a genius 
sufficient to acquire to us the honourable distinction 
of an English School, the name of Gainsborough 
will be transmitted to posterity, in this history of 
the art, among the very first of that rising name. 

Sir Joshua Reynolds, 



Ibcate tbe 
tILiet 



171 



MOST biographies are written with 
intent to make a man the demi-god, 
or to damn him as a rogue who has hood- 
winked a world. Of the first mentioned 
class, Weems' Life of Washington must 
ever stand as the true type. The author is 
so fearful that he will not think well of his 
subject that he conceals every attribute 
of our common humanity, and gives us 
a being almost devoid of eyes, ears, organs, 
dimensions, passions. Next to Weems 
in point of literary atrocity comes John 
S. C. Abbott, whose life of Napoleon is a 
splendid concealment of the man. 

Of those who have written biographies 
for the sake of belittling their subject, 
John Gait's Life of Byron occupies a 
conspicious position. But for books writ- 
ten for the double purpose of downing 



Classes of 

JSios 
gtapbfes 



172 



Xtttle 5ournep0 



TZbicMcesc 

as 
Siograpbet 



the subject and elevating the author, 
PhiHp Thicknesse's Life of Gainsborough 
must stand first. The book is so bad that 
it is interesting, and so stupid that it will 
never die. Thicknesse had a quarrel with 
Gainsborough and three fourths of the 
volume are given up to a minute recital 
of "says he" and "says I." It is really 
only an extended pamphlet written by 
an arch-bore with intent to get even with 
his man. 

The writer regards his petty affairs as 
of prime importance to the world, and 
he shows with great care, and not a single 
flash of wit, how all of Thomas Gains- 
borough's success in life was brought 
about by Thicknesse. And then, behold ! 
after Thicknesse had made the man by 
hand, all he received for pay was ingrati- 
tude and insolence! Thicknesse was always 
good, kind, unselfish, and disinterested; 
while Gainsborough was ungrateful, pro- 
crastinating, absurd, and malicious — this 
according to Thicknesse, who was on the 
spot and knew. Well, I guess so! 

Brock- Arnold describes Thicknesse as 
"a fussy, ostentatious, irrepressible busy- 
body, without the faintest conception of 



I 



Oatnsborougb 



delicacy or modesty, who seems to think 
he has a heaven-born right to patronise 
Gainsborough, and to take charge of his 
affairs." 

The aristocratic and pompous Thicknesse 
presented the painter to his friends, and 
also gave much advice about how he 
should conduct himself. He also loaned 
him a fiddle and presented him a viola 
de gamba, and often invited him to dinner. 
For these favours Gainsborough promised 
to paint a portrait of Thicknesse, but 
never got beyond washing in the back- 
ground. During ten years he made thirty- 
seven excuses for not doing the work, 
and as for Mrs. Gainsborough, she once 
had the temerity to hand Thicknesse his 
cocked hat and cane and show him the 
door. From this, Thicknesse is embold- 
ened to make certain remarks about Mrs. 
Gainsborough's pedigree, and to suggest 
that if Thomas Gainsborough had married 
a different woman he might have been a 
different painter. Thicknesse, through- 
out the book, thrusts himself into the 
breach and poses as the injured one. 

On reading "the work" it is hard to 
believe it was w^ritten in sober, serious 



174 



Xittle Journei^s 



Hllan 

Cunnings 

bam 



earnest — ^it contains such an intolerable 
deal of Thicknesse and so little Gainsbor- 
ough. The Mother Gamp flavour is upon 
every page. Andrew Lang might have 
written it to show the literary style of a 
disgruntled dead author. 

And the curious part is that up to 
1829, Thicknesse held the stage and many 
people took his portrait of Gainsborough 
as authentic. In that year Allan Cun- 
ningham put the great painter in his proper 
light, and thanks to the minute researches 
of Fulcher and others, we know the man 
as though he had lived yesterday. 



II 



175 



THE father of Gainsborough was a trades- 
man of acute instincts. He resided 
at Sudbury, in Suffolk, seventy miles from 
London. It was a time when every 
thrifty merchant lived over his place of 
business, so as to be on hand when buyers 
came; to ward off robbers; and to sweep 
the sidewalk, making all tidy before break- 
fast. Gainsborough pere was fairly pro- 
sperous, but not prosperous enough to 
support any of his nine children in idleness. 
They all worked, took a Saturday night 
"tub," and went to the Independent 
Church in decent attire on Sunday. 

Thomas Gainsborough was the youngest 
of the brood, the pet of his parents, and 
the pride of his big sisters who had nursed 



Gafnss 

borougb 

Ipece 



176 



Xlttle Sourness 



3Brotber0 



him and brought him up in the way he 
should go. In babyhood he was n't so 
very strong, but love and freedom gradual- 
ly did their perfect work, and he evolved 
into a tall, handsome youth of gracious 
manner and pleasing countenance. All 
the family were sure that Tom was going 
to be "somebody." 

The eldest boy, John, known to the 
town as ''Scheming Jack," had invented 
a cuckoo clock, and this led to a self -rock- 
ing cradle that wound up by a strong 
spring; next he made a flying machine; 
and so clever was he that he painted signs 
that swung on hinges, and in several 
instances essayed to put a picture of the 
prosperous owner on the sign. The second 
son, Humphrey, was a brilliant fellow, 
too. He made the model of a steam 
engine and showed it to a man by the 
name of Watt, who was greatly interested 
in it; and when Watt afterwards took 
out a patent on it, Humphrey's heart was 
nearly broken, and it might have been 
quite, but he said he had in hand half 
a dozen things worth more than the steam 
engine. As tangible proof of his power, 
he won a prize of fifty pounds from the 



Oainsborougb 



177 



London Society for the Encouragement 
of Art, for a mill that was to be turned 
by the tide of the sea. The steam engine 
would require fuel, but this tide engine 
would be turned by nature at her own 
expense. In the British Museum is a 
sun-dial made by Humphrey Gainsbor- 
ough, and it must stand to his credit 
that he made the original fire-proof safe. 
From a fire-proof safe to liberal theology 
is but a step, and Humphrey Gainsborough 
became a Dissenting clergyman, passing 
rich on forty pounds a year. 

The hopes of the family finally centred 
on Thomas. He had assisted his brother 
John at the sign painting, and had done 
several creditable little things in drawing 
'scutcheons on coach doors for the gentry. 
Besides all this, once, while sketching in 
his father's orchard, a face cautiously 
appeared above the stone wall and for a 
single moment studied the situation. The 
boy caught the features on his palette, and 
transferred them to his picture. The 
likeness was so perfect that it led to the 
execution of the thief who had been 
robbing the orchard, and also the execution 
of that famous picture, finished many 



XTbc Ibope 
of tbe 



178 



Xtttle Sourness 



St. 
fflJartin's 
2)rawfng 
Hcaiem^ 



years after, known as "Tom Peartree." 
The orchard episode pleased the Gains- 
boroughs greatly. A family council was 
held, and it was voted that Thomas must 
be sent to London to study art. The 
girls gave up a dress apiece, the mother 
retrimmed her summer bonnet for the win- 
ter, the boys contributed, and there came 
a day when Tom was duly ticketed and 
placed on top of the great coach bound for 
London. Good-byes were waved until only 
a cloud of dust was seen in the distance. 

Gainsborough went to ''St. Martin's 
Drawing Academy" at London, and the 
boys educated him. The art at the 
''Academy" seems to have been very 
much akin to the art of the writing acad- 
emies of America, where learned bucolic 
professors used to teach us the mysteries 
of the Spencerian system for a modest 
stipend. The humiliation of never know- 
ing "how to hold your pen" did much to 
send many budding geniuses off on a 
tangent after grasshopper chirography, 
but those who endured unto the end ac- 
quired the "wrist movement." They all 
wrote alike. That is to say, they all wrote 
like the professor, who wrote just like 



GatnsborouGb 



179 



all Spencerian professors. So write the 
girls in Melvil Dewey's Academy for 
Librarians, at Albany — God bless them 
all — they all write like Dewey. 

Thomas Gainsborough at London seems 
to have haunted the theatres and coffee- 
houses, and whenever there were pictures 
displayed, there was Thomas to be found. 
To help out the expense account, he 
worked at engraving and made designs 
for a silversmith. The strong receptive 
nature of the boy showed itself, for he suc- 
ceeded in getting a goodly hold on the art 
of engraving, in a very short time. He 
absorbed in the mass. 

But he tired of the town — he wanted 
freedom, fresh air, the woods and fields. 
Hogarth and Wilson were there in London, 
but the Academy students never heard of 
them. And if Gainsborough ever listened 
to Richardson's famous prophecy which 
inspired Hogarth and Reynolds, to the 
effect that England would soon produce 
a great school of art, we do not know it. 

The young man grew homesick; he was 
doing nothing in London — no career was 
open to him — he returned to Sudbury 
after an absence of nearly two years. He 



Ibomesick 



i8o 



Xittle 5ourne^0 



aanbscape 
painting 



thought it was defeat, but his family 
welcomed him as a conquering hero. 
He was eighteen and looked twenty — 
tall, strong, fair-haired, gentle in manner, 
gracious in speech. 

Two of his sisters had married clergymen 
and were happily situated in neighbouring 
towns; his brother Humphrey was "oc- 
cupying the pulpit" and causing certain 
local High Churchmen to have dreams of 
things tumbling about their ears. 

The sisters and mother wanted Tom to 
be a preacher, too — ^he was so straight 
and handsome and fine, and his eyes were 
so tender and blue! 

But he preferred to paint. He painted 
in the woods and fields, by streams and 
old mills, and got on good terms with all 
the flocks of sheep and cattle in the 
neighbourhood. 

The art of landscape painting developed 
from an accident. The early Italian 
painters used landscape only as a back- 
ground for figures. All they pictured 
were men, women, and children, and to 
bring these out rightly they introduced 
scenery. Imagine a theatre with scenes 
set and no person on the stage, and you 



(Bainsborouab 



i8i 



get the idea of landscape up to the time of 
Gainsborough. Landscape! it was nothing 
— a blank. 

Wilson first painted landscapes as back- 
grounds for other men to draw portraits 
upon. A marine scene was made merely 
that a commodore might stand in cocked 
hat, a spy-glass under his arm, in the fore- 
ground, while the sun peeps over the 
horizon begging permission to come up. 
Gradually these incomplete pictures were 
seen hanging in shop windows, but for 
them there was no market. They were 
merely curios. 

Gainsborough drew pictures of the 
landscape because he loved it. He seems 
to be the first English artist who loved the 
country for its own sake. Old bridges, 
winding roadways, gnarled oaks, cattle 
grazing and all the manifold beauties of 
quiet country life fascinated him. He 
educated the collector, and educated the 
people into a closer observation and study 
of nature. Gainsborough stood at the 
crossways of progress and pointed the way. 

With Hogarth's idea that a picture 
should teach a lesson and have a moral, he 
had no sympathy. And with Reynolds, 



Ht tbe 
Croaswass 
ofipcogcess 



l82 



Xittle 5ottrne^0 



portrait 
Ipafntcr 



who thought there was nothing worth 
picturing but the human face, he took 
issue. Beauty to him was its own excuse 
for being. However, in all of Gainsbor- 
ough's landscapes you will find the human 
interest somewhere — ^man has not been 
entirely left out. But from being the 
one important thing, he sinks simply into 
a part of the view that lies before you. 
Turner's maxim, "you cannot leave man 
out," he annexed from Gainsborough. 
And Corot's landscapes, where the dim, 
shadowy lovers sit on the bank-side under 
the great oaks, — ^the most lovely pictures 
ever painted by the hand of man— reveal 
the extreme evolution from a time when the 
lovers occupied the centre of the stage, 
and the landscape was only an accessory. 
And it is further interesting to note that 
the originator of English landscape painting 
was also a great portrait painter, and yet 
he dared paint portraits with absolutely 
no scenery back of them — a thing which 
up to that time was only done by a man 
who hadn't the ability to paint landscape. 
Thus do we prove Rabelais' proposition: 
" The man who has a well-filled strong box 
can surely afford to go ragged." 



Ill 



183 



THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH, aged 
nineteen, was one day intently 
sketching in a wood near Sudbury, when 
the branches suddenly parted and out into 
a little open space stepped Margaret Burr. 
This young woman had taken up her abode 
in Sudbury during the time the young 
man was in London, and he had never 
met her, although he had probably heard 
her praises sounded. Everybody around 
there had heard of her. She was the 
handsomest woman in all Suffolk — ^and 
knew it. She lived with her ''uncle," 
and the gossips, who looked after these 
little things, divided as to whether she 
was the daughter of one of the exiled 
Stuarts, or the natural child of the Duke 



Oiavgavct 
£uvc 



1 84 



Xittle 3orxvnc^5 



Zbe ^pcou^ 
Seaut^g 



of Bedford. An3rway, she was a true 
princess in face, form, and bearing, and 
had an income of her own of two hundred 
pounds a year. Her pride was a thing so 
potent that the rustic swains were chilled 
at the sight of her, and the numerous 
suitors sighed and shot their love-sick 
glances from a safe distance. 

Let that pass: the branches parted and 
Margaret stepped out into the open. She 
thought she was alone, when all at once 
her eyes looked full into the eyes of the 
young artist — not a hundred feet awa3^ 
She was startled ; she blushed, stammered, 
and tried to apologise for the intrusion. 
Her splendid self-possession had failed 
her for once^ — she was going to flee by 
the way she had come. *'Hold that po- 
sition, please, — stand just as you are!*' 
called the artist in a tone of authority. 

Even the proudest of women are willing 
to accept orders when the time is ripe; 
and I am fully convinced that to be domi- 
neered over by the right man is a thing 
all good women warmly desire. 

Margaret Burr, the proud beauty, stood 
stock still, and Thomas Gainsborough ad- 
mitted her into his landscape and his heart. 



Gainsborougb 18= 



This is not a love story or we might /^ 
begin here and extend our booklet into a gu(sbe6 
volume. Suffice it to say that within a ^"^"p^ 
few short months after their first meeting, 
the young woman, being of royal blood, 
exercised her divine right and " proposed". 
She proposed just as Queen Victoria did 
later. And then they were married — ^both 
under twenty — and lived happy ever 
after. 

It is a great mistake to assume that pride 
and a high degree of common-sense cannot 
go together. Margaret knew how to 
manage. After a short stay in Sudbury 
the couple rented a cottage at Ipswich for 
six pounds a year — a dove-cote with three 
rooms. The proud beauty would not let 
the place be profaned by a servant — she 
did all the work herself, and if she wanted 
help, she called on her husband. Base is 
the man who will not fetch and carry for 
the woman he loves. 

They were accounted the most dis- 
tinguished and handsomest couple in all 
Sudbury, and when they attended church 
there was so much craning of necks, 
and so many muffled exclamations of 
admiration that the clergyman made it a 



1 86 



Xtttle 5ottrnei?s 



H ipassfon 
fot iffiusic 



point not to begin the service until they 
were safely seated. 

They were very happy — ^they loved 
each other and so loved life and everything 
and everybody, and God's great green 
out-o'-doors was their playhouse. Mar- 
garet's income was quite sufficient for their 
needs, and mad ambition passed them 
by. Gainsborough drew pictures and 
painted and sketched, and then gave his 
pictures away. 

Music was his passion and whenever 
at concerts, held round about there, 
the player did exceptionally well, Gains- 
borough would proffer a picture in ex- 
change for the instrument used. In this 
way the odd corners of their house got 
filled with violins, lutes, hautboys, kettle- 
drums and curious stringed things that 
have died the death and are now extinct. 
At this time if any one had asked Gains- 
borough his profession, he would have 
said, I am a musician. 

Fifteen years had slipped into the 
eternity that lies behind — "years not 
lost, for we can turn the hourglass and 
live them all over in sweet memory," 
once said Gainsborough to his wife. The 



Oatnsborougb 



187 



constant sketching had developed much 
skill in the artist's hand. Thicknesse had 
come puffing alongside, and insisted out of 
pure friendship to take the artist and 
his wife in tow. They laughed at him 
behind his back, and carried on conver- 
sation over his head, and dropped jokes 
at his feet by looks and pantomime and 
communicated in cipher — ^for true lovers 
always evolve a code. 

Thicknesse was sincere and serious and 
surely was not wholly bad — even Mephisto 
is not bad all of the time. Mrs. Gains- 
borough once said she would prefer 
Mephisto to Thicknesse, because Mephisto 
had a sense of humour. Very naturally 
they often referred to Thicknesse as 
"Thickhead" — the joke was too obvious 
to let pass entirely, until each ''took the 
pledge," witnessed by Gainsborough's fa- 
vorite terrier, **Fox." 

Thicknesse had a summer house at 
Bath, and thither he insisted his friends 
should go. He would vouch for them 
and introduce them into the best society. 
He would even introduce them to Beau 
Nash, ''the King of Bath," and arrange 
to have Gainsborough do himself the 



Ubict^nesse 



Xittle Journeys 



2it3Batb honour of painting the "King's" picture. 
Two daughters nearing womanhood re- 
minded Mr. and Mrs. Gainsborough that 
an increase in income would be well; 
and Thicknesse promised many commis- 
sions from his friends, the gentry. 

The cheapest house they could find in 
Bath was fifty pounds a year. "Do you 
want to go to gaol?" asked Mrs. Gains- 
borough of her husband when he proposed 
signing the lease. The worldly Thicknesse 
proposed that they should take this house 
at fifty pounds a year, or else take another 
at one hundred and fifty at his expense. 
They decided to risk it at the rate of 
fifty pounds a year for a few months, and 
were duly settled. 

Thicknesse was very proud of his art 
connections. He had but one theme — 
Gainsborough! People of note began to 
find their way to the studio of the painter- 
man in the Circus. Gainsborough was 
gracious, handsome, and healthy — afresh 
from the country. He met all nobility on 
a frank equality — God had made him a 
gentleman. His beautiful wife, now in 
her early thirties, was much sought in 
local society circles. 



Gatnsborougb 



Everybody of note who came to Bath 
visited Gainsborough's studio. Garrick 
sat to him and played such pranks with 
his countenance that each time when the 
artist looked up from his easel, he saw a 
new man. "You have everybody's face 
but your own," said Gainsborough to 
Garrick, and dismissing the man, he com- 
pleted the picture from memory. 

This portrait and also pictures of 
General Honeywood, the Comedian Quin, 
Lady Grosvenor, the Duke of Argyle, 
besides several landscapes were sent up 
to the Academy Exhibition at London. 

George III. saw them and sent word 
down that he wished Gainsborough lived 
in London so he could sit to him. 

The carrier, Wiltshire, who packed the 
pictures and took them up to London had 
a passion for art that filled his heart and 
refused to accept gold, that base and com- 
mon drudge twixt man and man, for 
his services in an art way. And so 
Gainsborough presented him with a picture. 
In fact during the term of years that 
Gainsborough lived at Bath, he gave 
Wiltshire, the modest driver of an ex- 
press cart, a dozen or more pictures and 



©corge mill 



19© 



Xlttle 5outneps 



milts 

sbire's 

Collection 



sketches. He gave him the finest picture 
he ever painted — ^that portrait of the 
old parish clerk. 

Gainsborough was not so good a judge 
of his own work as Wiltshire was. Wilt- 
shire kept all the "Gainsboroughs'* he 
could get, revelled in them during his long 
life, basked and bathed his soul in their 
beauty, and dying, bequeathed them to 
his children. 

Had Wiltshire been moved by nothing 
but keen, cold worldly wisdom — ^which he 
wasn't — he could not have done better. 
Even friendship, love, and beauty have their 
Rialto — ^the appraiser footed up the Wilt- 
shire estate at over fifty thousand pounds. 

Gainsborough found himself with more 
work than he could well care for, so he 
raised his prices for a "half length" from 
five pounds to forty; and for a ''full 
length" from ten pounds to one hundred, 
in order to limit the number of his patrons. 
It doubled them. 

His promised picture of Thicknesse was 
delegated behind the door, and a check 
was sent the great man for five hundred 
pounds for his borrowed viola da gamba 
and other favours. 



(Batnsborougb 



191 



But Thicknesse was not to be bought 
off. He took charge of the studio, looked 
after the visitors, explaining this and that, 
telling how he had discovered the artist 
and rescued him from obscurity, giving 
scraps of his history, and presenting little 
impromptu lectures on art as he had 
found it. 

The fussy Thicknesse used to be funny 
to Mr. and Mrs. Gainsborough, but now he 
had developed into a nuisance. To escape 
him, they resolved to turn the pretty 
compliment of King George into a genuine 
request. They packed up and moved to 
London. 

The fifty pounds a year at Bath had 
seemed a great responsibility, but when 
Gainsborough took Schomberg House in 
Pall Mall at three hundred pounds, he 
boasts of his bargain. About this time 
''Scheming Jack" turns up asking for 
a small loan to perfect a promising scheme. 
The gracious brother replies that although 
his own expenses are over a thousand 
pounds a year, yet he is glad to accommo- 
date him, and hopes the scheme will pros- 
per — which of course he knew it would not, 
for success is a matter of the red corpuscle. 



isfiov&i to 

London 



192 



%ittlc 5outneps 



Bca&emg 



Almost immediately on reaching London 
the Royal Academy recognised Gainsbor- 
ough's presence by electing him a member 
of its Council. However, he never at- 
tended a single meeting. He did not need 
the Academy. Royalty stood in line at 
his studio doors, and he took his pick of 
sitters. He painted five different portraits 
of the king, various pictures of his child- 
ren, did the rascally heir apparent ideally, 
and made a picture of Queen Charlotte 
that Goldsmith said " looked like a sensible 
woman." 

He painted pictures of his lovely wife, 
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Burke, Wal- 
pole the dictator of Strawberry Hill, and 
immortalised the hats worn by the smash- 
ing, dashing Duchess of Devonshire. One 
of these pictures of Her Grace comes very 
close to us Americans, as it was cut from 
the frame one dark, foggy night in London, 
sealed up in the false bottom of a trunk 
and brought to New York. Here it lay 
for over twenty years, when Colonel 
Patricius Sheedy, connoisseur and critic, 
arranged for its delivery to the heirs of 
the original owners on payment of some 
such trifle as twenty-five thousand dollars. 



Gainsborougb 193 



This superb picture, with its romantic b 
past was not destined to traverse the picture 
Atlantic again; for thanks to the gen- 
erosity of J. Pierpont Morgan, it has 
now found a permanent home at Harvard 
College. 



194 



IV 



®nwar& 
^arcb 



IT is only a little way back from civilisa- 
tion to savagery. We live in a won- 
derful time : the last twenty-five years have 
seen changes that mark epochs in the on- 
ward and upward march. Not to mention 
but two, we might name the almost com- 
plete evolution of our definition as to 
what constitutes ''Christianity"; and in 
material things the use of electricity, which 
has worked such a revolution as even 
Jules Verne never conjured forth. 

Americans are somewhat given to call- 
ing our country " The Land of the Free" — 
as if there were no other. But the in- 
dividual in England to-day has greater 
freedom of speech and action than the 
individual has in America. In every 



(Batnsborougb 195 



Xi 
Strong 



large city of America there is an extent 

of petty officialism and dictation that the Jactoc 

English people would not for a day endure. 

Our policemen, following their Donny- 

brook proclivities, are all armed with clubs, 

and allowing pre-natal influences to lead, 

they unlimber the motto, " Wherever you 

see a head, hit it," on slight excuse. In 

Central Park, New York, for instance, the 

citizen who "talks back" would speedily 

be clubbed into silence — ^but try that thing 

in Hyde Park, London, if you please, and 

see what would follow! But, thank heaven 

we are working out our salvation all the 

time — things are getting better, and it 

is the '' dissatisfied" who are making them 

go. Were we satisfied, there would be 

no progress. 

During the sixty-one years of Gains- 
borough's life, wondrous changes were 
made in the world of thought and feeling. 
And the good-natured but sturdy quality 
of such as he was the one strong factor 
that worked for freedom. Gainsborough 
was never a tuft-hunter: he toadied to 
no man, and his swinging independence 
refused to see any special difference be- 
tween himself and the sleek, titled nobility. 



i 



196 



%ittlc 5outnei?s 



Ube tReign 

of tbe 

Oeotdes 



He asked no favors of the Academy, no 
quarter from his rivals, no grants from 
royalty. This dissenting attitude prob- 
ably cost him the mate of the knighthood 
which went to Sir Joshua, but behold 
the paradox! he was usually closer to the 
throne than those who lay in wait for 
honours. Gainsborough sought for nothing 
— ^he did his work, preserved the right 
mental attitude, and all good things came 
to him. 

It is a curious thing to note that while 
England was undergoing a renaissance 
of art, and realising a burst of freedom, 
Italy, that land so long prolific in great- 
ness, produced not a single artist who 
arose above the dull and commonplace. 
Has nature only just so much genius at her 
disposal ? 

The reign of the Georges worked a 
blessed, bloodless revolution for the people 
of England. They reigned better than 
they knew. Gainsborough saw the power 
of the monarch transferred to the people, 
and the king become the wooden figurehead 
of the ship, instead of its captain. So, 
thanks to the weakness of George III. 
and the short-sighted policy of Lord 



Oainsborougb 



197 



North, America achieved her independence 
about the same time that England did hers. 

Theological freedom and political free- 
dom go hand in hand, for our conception 
of Deity is always a pale reflection of our 
chief ruler. Did not Thackeray say that 
the people of England regarded Jehovah 
as an infinite George the Fourth? 

Gainsborough saw Whitefield and Wesley 
entreating that we should go to God 
direct; Howard was letting the sunshine 
into dark cells; Clarkson, Sharp, and 
Wilberforce had begun their crusade 
against slavery, and their arms and ar- 
guments were to be transferred a hund- 
red years later to William Lloyd Garrison, 
Wendell Phillips, and Henry Ward Beecher, 
who bought "Beecher Bibles" for old 
John Brown, Ossawatomie Brown, whose 
body no longer needed, was hanged on a 
sour apple tree, while his soul goes march- 
ing on. 

In the realm of Letters, Gainsborough 
saw changes occur no less important than 
in the political field. Samuel Johnson 
bowled into view, scolding and challenging 
the ensconced smug; Goldsmith scaled 
the Richardson ghetto and wrote his 



irn \b< 
•JRealm of 
letters 



Xittle Sourness 



SJrogress 
fn Science 



touching and deathless verse; Fielding's 
saffron comedies were produced at Drury 
Lane; Cowper, nearly the same age as 
the artist, did his work and lapsed into 
imbecility, surviving him sixteen years; 
Richardson became the happy father of 
the English Novel; Stem took his Senti- 
mental Journey; Chatterton, the meteor, 
flashed across the literary sky; Gray 
mused in the churchyard and laid his 
head upon the lap of earth; Burns was 
promoted from the Excise to be the idol 
of all Scotland. The year that Gains- 
borough died, Napoleon, a slim slip of a 
youth seventeen years old, was serving 
as a sub-lieutenant of artillery; while 
Wellington had just received his first com- 
mission and was marching zigzag, by 
the right oblique, to meet him eighteen 
miles from Brussels on the night of a ball 
sung into immortality by Byron; Watt 
had invented the steam engine, thanks 
to Humphrey Gainsborough; Arkwright 
had made his first spinning-frame; Hum- 
phrey Davy was working at problems 
(with partial success) to be solved later 
by Edison of Menlo Park; Lord Hastings 
was tried, and it was while listening to the 



OatnsborouGb 199 



speech of Sheridan — the one speech of his 2)2atb c 
Hfe, the best words of which, according 
to his butler, were, *' My Lords, I am 
done," that Gainsborough caught his 
death o' cold. 



V 



B %ifc of 

TOlorft 
an5 OLovc 



GAINSBOROUGH never went abroad 
to study ; he painted things at home, 
and painted as he saw them. He never im- 
agined he was a great artist, so took no 
thought as to the future of his work. He 
set so Httle store on his pictures that he 
did not think even to sign them. The 
masterpiece that satisfied him was never 
done. 

His was a happy Hfe of work and love, 
with no cloud to obscure the sun, save 
possibly now and then a bumptious re- 
proof from Sir Thicknesse of the occasional 
high-handed haughtiness of a hanging 
committee. 

Thus passed his life in work, music, 
laughter, and love; but to music he ever 



(BalnsborouGb 



201 



turned for rest. He made more money 
than all of his seven brothers and sisters 
combined, five times over, and divided 
with them without stint. He educated 
several of his nieces and nephews, and 
one nephew, Gainsborough Dupont, he 
adopted, and helped make of him an ac- 
ceptable artist. 

Of that peculiarly to be dreaded mal- 
ady, artistic jealousy, Gainsborough had 
not a trace. His failure to court Sir 
Joshua's smile led foolish folks to say 
he was jealous — not so! he was simply 
able to get along without Sir Joshua, and 
he did. Yet he admired Reynolds' work 
and admired the man, but was too wise 
to force any close personal relationship. 

He divided with West, the American, 
the favour of the Court, and with Romney 
and Reynolds the favour of the town. He 
got his share, and more, of all the world 
counts worth while. The gratitude of his 
heart was expressed by his life — generous, 
kind, joyous — ^never cast down excepting 
when he thought he had spoken harshly 
or acted unwisely — loyal to his friends, 
forgetting his enemies. 

He did a deathless work, for it is a work 



%ifc of 
(3rat{tube 



202 



Xtttle Journei^s 



B (Sreat 
Iptfvilege 



Upon which other men have built. He 
prepared the way for those who were 
to come after. 

It is a great privilege to live, to work, 
to feel, to endure, to know: to realise 
that one is the instrument of Deity — 
being used by the Maker to work out His 
inscrutable purposes: to see vast changes 
occur in the social fabric and to know 
that men stop, pause, and consider: to 
comprehend that this world is a different 
place because you have lived. Yes, it is a 
great privilege to live ! Gainsborough lived 
— ^he revelled in life, and filled his days to 
their brim, ever and alway grateful to 
the Unknown that had guided his hand 
and led him forth upon his way. It is a 
great privilege to live! 



VELASQUEZ 



203 



41 



205 



Among the notable prophets of the new and true, 
Rubens, Rembrandt, Claude — Velasquez was the 
newest and certainly the truest from our point of 
view. He showed us the mystery of light as God 
made it. 

Stevenson. 



m motable 
B5ropbet 



207 



T 



HERE are among writing men, those iborace 



who please the populace, and also 
that elect few who inspire writers. When 
Horace Greeley gave his daily message to 
the world, every editor of any power in 
America paid good money for the privilege 
of being a subscriber to the Tribune. 
The Tribune had no exchange list — 
if you wanted the Tribune you had to 
buy it, and the writers bought it because 
it wound up their clocks — set them a-going 
— and they either carefully abstained 
from mentioning Greeley, or else went 
in right valiantly and exposed his vagaries. 
Greeley may often have been right, 
and we now know he was often wrong, 
but he infused the breath of life into 



(Breeleg 



208 



3LtttIe Journeps 



strong 
tSicn 



his words — ^his sentences were a challenge 
■ — ^he made men think. And the reason 
he made men think was because he him- 
self was a thinker. 

Among modem literary men, the two 
English writers who have most inspired 
writers are Carlyle and Emerson. They 
were writers' writers. In the course of 
their work, they touched upon every 
phase of man's experience and endeavour. 
You cannot open their books an3^where 
and read a page without casting about 
for your pencil and pad. Strong men 
infuse into their work a deal of their own 
spirit, and their words are charged with a 
suggestion and meaning beyond the mere 
sound. There is a reverberation that 
thrills one. All art that lives is thus 
vitalised with a spiritual essence: an 
essence that ever escapes the analyst, 
but which is felt and known by all 
who have hearts that throb and souls that 
feel. 

Strong men make room for strong men. 
Emerson and Carlyle inspired other men, 
and they inspired each other — ^but whether 
there be warrant for that overworked 
reference to their "friendship" is a ques- 



IDelasques 209 



tion. Some other word surely ought to ap- ^^^ , 
ply here, for their relationship vv^as largely painter 
a matter of the head, with a weather 
eye on Barabbas, and three thousand 
miles of very salt brine between them. 
Carlyle never came to America: Emerson 
made but three trips to England; and 
often a year or more passed without a 
single letter on either side. Tammas 
Carlyle, son of a stone-mason, with his 
crusty ways and clay pipe, with personality 
plus, at close range would have been a 
combination not entirely congenial to the 
culminating flower of seven generations 
of New England clergymen — probably 
not more so than was the shirt-sleeved 
and cravatless Walt, when they met that 
memorable day by appointment at the 
Astor House. 

Our first and last demand of art is that 
it shall give us the artist's best. Art is 
the mintage of the soul. All the whim, 
foible, and rank personality are blown 
away on the winds of time — the good re- 
mains. Of artists who have inspired artists, 
and who being dead yet live, Velasquez 
stands first. 

"Velasquez was a painters' painter — 



2IO 



Xlttle Sourness 



3fini6be& 
Ipicture 



the rest of us are only painters." And 
when the man who painted "Symphonies 
in White," further explained that a 
picture is finished when all traces of 
the means used to bring about the end 
have disappeared — ^for work alone will 
efface the footsteps of work — he had 
Velasquez in mind. 



II 



211 



THE subject of this sketch was bom 
in the year 1599, and died in 1660. 
And while he lived there also lived these: 
Shakespeare, Cervantes, Murillo, Rem- 
brandt, and Rubens. 

As an artist and a man Velasquez was 
the equal, in his way, of any of the men 
just named. Ruskin has said, " Every- 
thing that Velasquez does may be regarded 
as absolutely right." And Sir Joshua 
Reynolds placed himself on record by 
saying, "The portrait of Pope Innocent X. 
by Velasquez, in the Doria Gallery, is the 
finest portrait in all Rome." Yet until 
the year 1776, a date Americans can easily 
remember, the work of Velasquez was 
scarcely known outside of Spain. In that 



Ube Equal 
of (Sceat 



212 



Xlttle Journei^B 



Ube 
morI& 
Bwofec 



year Raphael Mengs wrote: "How this 
painter, greater than Raphael or Titian, 
truer far than Rubens or Van Dyke, should 
have been lost to view is more than I can 
comprehend. I can not find words to 
describe the splendour of his art!" 

But enthusiasts who ebulliate at low 
temperature are plentiful. The world 
wagged on in its sleepy way, and it was not 
until 1828, that an Englishman, Sir David 
Wilkie, following up the clue of Mengs , 
began quietly to buy up all the stray pic- 
tures by Velasquez he could find in Spain. 
He sent them to England, and the world 
one day awoke to the fact that Velasquez 
was one of the greatest artists of all time. 
Curtis compiled a list of two hundred and 
seventy-four pictures by Velasquez, which 
he pronounces authentic. Of these one 
hundred and twenty-one were owned in 
England, thirteen in France, twelve in 
Austria, and eight in Italy. At least fifteen 
of the English 'oldings have since been 
transferred to America; so outside of 
England and Spain, America possesses 
more of the works of this master than any 
other country. L. But of this be sure: No 
Velasquez will ever leave Spain unless 



Delasques 213 



spirited out of the country between two g'^Jj^^ 
days — and if one is carried away, it will mctuvc 
not be in the false bottom of a trunk. 
Within a year one Velasquez was so found 
secreted at Cadiz, and the owner only 
escaped prison by presenting the picture 
with his compliments to the Prado Museum 
at Madrid. The release of the prisoner 
and the acceptance of the picture, were 
both a bit irregular as matter of juris- 
prudence; but I am told that lawyers can 
usually arrange these little matters — Dame 
Justice being blind in one eye. 



214 



%aw or 
Btt 



III 

THERE seems to have been some little 
discussion in the de Silva family of 
Seville as to whether Diego should be a 
lawyer, and follow in his father's footsteps, 
or become an artist and possibly a vagrom. 
The father had hoped the boy would be 
his helper and successor, and here the 
youngster was wasting his time drawing 
pictures of water-jugs, baskets of flowers, old 
women-and foolish folk about the market! 

Should it be the law school or the studio 
of Herrera the painter? 

To almost every fond father the idea of 
discipline is, to have the child act as he 
does. But in this case the mother had 
her way, or more properly, she let the 
boy have his — as mothers do — and the 
sequel shows that a woman's heart is 
sometimes nearer right than a man's head. 



IDelasques 



215 



The fact that "Velasquez" was the 
maiden name of his mother, and was 
adopted by the young man, is a straw 
that tells which way the vane of his affec- 
tions turned. 

Diego was sixteen and troublesome. 
He was n't "bad" — only he had a rollick- 
some, flamboyant energy that inundated 
ever3rthing, and made his absence often a 
blessing devoutly to be wished. Herrera 
had fixed thoughts about art and deport- 
ment. Diego failed to grasp the beauty 
and force of these ideas, and in the course 
of a year he seems to have learned just one 
thing of Herrera — ^to use brushes with 
very long handles and long bristles. This 
peculiarity he clung to through life, and 
the way he floated the colour upon the 
canvas with those long, ungainly brushes 
no one understood; he really didn't 
know himself, and the world has long since 
given up the riddle. But the scheme 
was Herrera's, improved upon by Velas- 
quez; yet not all men who paint with a 
brush that has a handle eight feet long 
can paint like Velasquez. 

In Herrera*s studio there were often 
heated arguments as to merits and de- 



fjetrera*© 
StuDio 



2l6 



Xtttle Journeys 



B>acbeco 



merits, fiat contradictions as to facts, 
and wordy warfare that occasionally re- 
sulted in broken furniture. On such oc- 
casions Herrera never hesitated to take 
a hand and soundly cuff a pupil's ears, 
if the master thought the pupil needed 
it. 

Velasquez has left on record the state- 
ment that Herrera was the most dogmatic, 
pedantic, overbearing, and quarrelsome man 
he ever knew. Just what Herrera thought 
of the young man Velasquez, unfortunately, 
we do not know. But the belief is that 
Velasquez left Herrera's studio on request 
of Herrera. 

He next entered the studio of the rich 
and fashionable painter, Pacheco. This 
man, like Macaulay, had so much learning 
that it ran over and he stood in the slop. 
He wrote a book on painting, and might also 
have carried on a correspondence school 
wherein the art of portraiture would be 
taught in ten easy lessons. 

In Madrid and Seville are various speci- 
mens of work done by both Herrera and 
Pacheco. Herrera had a certain style, and 
the early work of Velasquez showed Herre- 
ra's earmarks plainly; but we look in vain 



lDelasque3 217 



for a trace of influence that can be attri- ^"ana 
buted to Pacheco. 

Velasquez at eighteen could outstrip his 
master, and both knew it. So Pacheco 
showed his good sense by letting the young 
man go his own pace. He admired the 
dashing, handsome youth, and although 
Velasquez broke every rule laid down in 
Pacheco 's mighty tome, ''Art as I have 
Found It," yet the master uttered no word 
of protest. 

The boy was bigger than the book. 

More than this, Pacheco invited the 
young man to come and make his home 
with him, so to better avail himself of the 
master's instruction. Now Pacheco (like 
Brabantio in the play) had a beautiful 
daughter, — ^Juana by name. She was about 
the age of Velasquez, gentle, refined, and 
amiable. Love is largely a matter of pro- 
pinquity: and the world now regards 
Pacheco as a master match-maker as 
well as a master painter. Diego and 
Juana were married, aged nineteen, and 
Pacheco breathed easier. He had attached 
to himself the most daring and brilliant 
young man he had ever known, and he 
had saved himself the annoyance of having 



2l8 



Xtttle 5ottrne^0 



Ipacbeco*s 
IDtrtuc 



his studio thronged with a gang of suitors 
such as crowded the courts of Ulysses. 

Pacheco was pleased. 

And why should Pacheco not have been 
pleased? He had linked his name for 
all time with the history of art. Had he 
not been the teacher and father-in-law of 
Velasquez, his name would have been writ 
in water, for in his own art there was not 
enough Attic salt to save it ; and his learning 
was a thing of dusty, musty books. 

Pacheco 's virtue consisted in recognising 
the genius of Velasquez, and hanging on to 
him closely, rubbing off all the glory that he 
could make stick to himself. To the day 
of his death Pacheco laid the flattering 
unction to his soul that he had made 
Velasquez; but leaving this out of the dis- 
cussion, no one doubts that Velasquez 
plucked from oblivion the name and fame 
of Pacheco. 



IV 



219 



MR. VANCE THOMPSON has written, 
" Those splendid blonde women of 
Rubens are the solaces of the eternal fight- 
ing man." The wife of Velasquez was of 
the Rubens type: she looked upon her 
husband as the ideal. She believed in him, 
ministered to him, and had no other gods 
before him. She had but one ambition, 
and that was to serve her lord and master. 

Her faith in the man — in his power, in 
his integrity and in his art — corroborated 
his faith in himself. We want one to be- 
lieve in us, and this being so, all else matters 
little. 

Velasquez seems a type of the "eternal 
fighting man" — not the quarrelsome, quib- 
bling man, who draws on slight excuse, 
but the man with a message, who goes 
straight to his destination with a will that 



Eternal 
S'igbtmg 



220 



%ittlc Sonvm^s 



Sum of 



breaks through every barrier, and pushes 
aside every obstacle. With the savage 
type there is no progression — ^the noble 
red man is content to be a noble red man 
all his days, and the result is that in stand- 
ing still he is retreating off the face of the 
earth. Not so your '' eternal fighting man ' ' 
— he is scourged by a restlessness that 
allows him no rest nor respite save in his 
work. Beware when a thinker and worker 
is let loose on the planet. In the days 
of Velasquez, Spain had but two patrons 
for art: Royalty and the Church. 

Although nominally a Catholic, Velasquez 
had little sympathy with the supersti- 
tions of the multitude. His religion was 
essentially a natural religion: to love his 
friends, to bathe in the sunshine of life, 
to preserve a right mental attitude — ^the 
receptive attitude, the attitude of gratitude 
— and to do his work — ^these things were 
for him the sum of life. 

His passion was art — to portray his 
feelings on canvas and make manifest to 
others the things he himself saw. The 
Church, he thought, did not afford sufficient 
outlet for his power. Cherubs that could 
live only in the tropics, and wings without 



\Delasgue3 



221 



muscles to manipulate them, did not 
mean much to him. The men and women 
on earth appealed to him more than the 
angels in heaven, and he could not imagine 
a better paradise than this. So he painted 
what he saw — old men, market women, beg- 
gars, handsome boys, and toddling babies. 
These things did not appeal to prelates — 
they wanted pictures of things a long way 
off. So from the Church Velasquez turned 
his gaze toward the Court at Madrid. 

Velasquez had been in the studio of 
Pacheco at Seville for five years. During 
that time he filled the days with work — 
joyous, eager work. He produced a good 
many valuable pictures and a great many 
sketches that were mostly given away. Yet 
to-day Seville, with her splendid art gallery 
and her hundreds of palaces, contains not 
a single specimen of the work of her greatest 
son. 

It was a daring thing, for a young man 
of twenty-four to knock boldly at the gates 
of royalty. But the application was made 
in Velasquez's own way. All of his studies 
which the critics tauntingly called " tavern 
pieces" were a preparation for the life and 
work before him. He had mastered the 



Bt tbe 

©ates of 



222 



Xittle Journeys 



B Strong 

Daliant 
Soul 



subtlety of the human face, and had seen 
how the spirit shines through and reveals 
the soul. 

To know how to write correctly is nothing 
— ^you must know something worth record- 
ing. To paint is nothing — you must know 
what you are portraying. Velasquez had 
become acquainted with humanity, and 
gotten on intiraate terms with life. He had 
haunted the waysides and markets to good 
purpose — he had laid the foundation of 
those qualities which characterise his best 
work — mastery of expression, penetration 
into character, the ability to look upon a 
face and read the thoughts that lurk be- 
hind, the crouching passions, and all the 
aspirations too great for speech. To picture 
great men you must be a great man. 

Velasquez was twenty-four — dark, daring, 
silent, with a face and form that proclaimed 
him a strong and valiant soul. Strong 
men can well afford to be gentle — ^those 
who know can well cultivate silence. 

The young man did not storm the doors 
of the Alcazar. No, at Madrid he went 
quietly to work copying Titians in the 
gallery, and incidentally painting portraits 
— ^royalty must come to him. He had faith 



IDelasques 



223 



in his power: he could wait. His wife 
knew the Court would call him — ^he knew 
it, too — the Court of Spain needed Velas- 
quez. It is a fine thing to make yourself 
needed. 

Nearly a year had passed, and Velasquez 
gave it out quietly that he was about to 
return to his home in Seville. Artistic 
Madrid rubbed its eyes. The Minister 
of State, the great Olivares, came to him 
with a commission from the King and a 
goodly payment in advance, begging that 
as soon as he had made a short visit to 
Seville, he should return to Madrid. Apart- 
ments had already been set aside for him 
in the Alcazar Palace. Would he not 
kindly comply? 1 

Such a reqiiest from the King was really 
equal to an order. Velasquez surely had 
no intention of declining the compliment 
since he had angled for it most ingeniously ; 
but he took a little time to consider it. Of 
course he talked it over with his wife and 
her father, and we can imagine they had 
a quiet little supper by themselves in honour 
of the event. 

And so in the month of May, 1623, Diego 
de Silva Velasquez duly became a member 



Ube IRing's 
IRequest 



224 



Xtttle Sourness 



/member 
of tbe 
mo^al 
Jfamils 



of the royal household, and very soon was 
the companion, friend, adviser and attend- 
ant of the King — ^that post which he was 
to hold for thirty-six years, ere death should 
call him hence. 



THE farmer thinks that place and 
power are fine things, but let him 
know that the President has paid dear for 
his White House," said the sage of Concord. 

The most miserable man I ever knew 
was one who married a rich woman, man- 
aged her broad acres, looked after her bonds, 
and made report of her stocks. If the 
stocks failed to pay dividends, or the acres 
were fallow, my friend had to explain why 
to the tearful wife and sundry sarcastic 
next of kin. 

The man was a Jeffersonian democrat 
and preached the life of simplicity, be- 
cause we always preach about things that 
are not ours. He rode behind horses 
that had docked tails, and apologised for 
being on earth to an awful butler in solemn 
black. 



U flDost 
/iDfserable 



226 



Xlttle Journeys 



Ibealtb 

an6 

fbavplncse 



The man had married for a home — ^he 
got it. When he wanted funds for him- 
self, he was given dole, or else was put 
to the necessity of juggling the expense 
account. If he wished to invite friends 
to his home, he had to prove them standard- 
bred, morally sound in wind and limb, and 
free from fault or blemish. 

The good man might have lived a 
thoroughly happy life, with everything 
supplied that he needed, but he acquired 
the sanatarium habit, for which there is 
no cure but poverty. And this man could 
not be poor even if he wanted to, for there 
were no grounds for divorce. His wife 
loved him dearly, and her income of five 
thousand dollars a month came along with 
startling regularity, willy nilly. 

Finally, at Hot Springs, death gave him 
treatment and he was freed from pain. 

From this o'er-time incident it must not 
be imagined that wealth and position are 
bad things. Health is potential power. 
Wealth is an engine that can be used for 
good if you are an engineer; but to be 
tied to the fly-wheel of an engine is rather 
unfortunate. Had my friend been big 
enough to rise supreme over horses with 



IDelasques 227 



docked tails, to subjugate a butler, to defy TOiitbfn 
the next of kin and manage the wife Bicasac 
(without letting her know it), all would ^^^^^^ 
have been well. 

But it is a Herculean task to cope with 
the handicap of wealth. Mediocre men can 
endure failure, for as Robert Louis, the 
beloved, has pointed out, failure is natural, 
but worldly success is an abnormal con- 
dition. In order to stand success you 
must be of very stem fibre, with all the 
gods on your side. 

The Alcazar Palace looked strong, solid, 
and self-sufficient on the outside. But 
inside, like every court, it was a den of 
quibble, quarrel, envy, and the hatred 
that tinctured with fear, knocks an anvil 
chorus from day-dawn to dark. 

A thousand people made up the house- 
hold of Philip IV. Any of these could 
be dismissed in an hour — the power of 
Olivares, the Minister, was absolute. Very 
naturally there were plottings and counter- 
plottings. A court is a prison to most of 
its inmates; no freedom is there — ^thought 
is strangled and inspiration is still-born. 

Yet life is always breaking through. When 
locked in a cell in a Paris prison, Horace 



228 



Xtttle 5ourne^s 



%ifc a %lc 



Greeley wrote, " Thank God, at last I am 
free from intrusion." 

Stone walls do not a prison make 
Nor iron bars a cage, 

laughed Lovelace. Have not some of the 
great books of the world been written in 
prison? Things work by antithesis; and 
if your discipline is too severe, you get 
no discipline at all. Puritanical pretence, 
hypocrisy, and a life of repression, with 
"thou shalt not" set on a hair-trigger have 
made more than one man bold, genuine, 
and honest. Draw the bow far enough this 
way and your arrow will go a long way that. 
Forbid a man to think for himself or to 
act for himself, and you may add the joy 
of piracy and the zest of smuggling to 
his life. 

In the Spanish Court, Velasquez found 
life a lie, public manners an exaggeration, 
etiquette a pretence, and all the emotions 
put up in sealed cans. Fashionable society 
is usually nothing but canned life. Look 
out for explosions! Velasquez held the 
balance true by an artistic courage and an 
audacity of private thought that might 
not have been his in a freer atmosphere. 



IDelasquej 



229 



He did not wear his art upon his sleeve — ^he 
outwardly conformed, but inwardly his 
soul tow^ered over every petty annoyance, 
and all the vain power of the fearing and 
quibbling little princes touched him not. 



UnwarS 
(Talm 



230 



VI 



Ipbilip HIT 



SPAIN, under the rule of Philip II., grew 
great. Her ships sailed every sea — 
the world contributed to her wealth. Art 
comes after a surplus has accumulated, 
and the mere necessities of life have been 
provided. Philip built great palaces, found- 
ed schools, gave encouragement to the 
handicrafts, and sent his embassies scouring 
the world for the treasures of art. The 
king was a practical man, blunt, far-seeing, 
direct. He knew the cost of things, studied 
out the best ways, ascertained right methods. 
He had the red corpuscle, the deep con- 
volution, and so was king. His ministers 
did his bidding. 

The grim sarcasm of entailed power 
is a thing so obvious that one marvels it has 
escaped the recognition of mankind until 
yesterday. But stay! men have always 



IDelasques 



231 



seen its monstrous absurdity — hence the 
rack. 

The Spanish Inquisition, in which Church 
and State combined against God, seems 
an awful extreme to show the depths of 
iniquity to which pride married to hypocrisy 
can sink. Yet martyrdom has its compen- 
sation. The spirit flies home upon the wings 
of victory, and in the very moment of so- 
called defeat, the man has the blessed 
consolation that he is still master of his 
fate — captain of his soul. 

The lesson of the Inquisition was worth 
the price — ^the martyrs bought freedom 
for us. The fanged dogs of war, once turned 
loose upon the man who dared to think, 
have left as sole successor only a fat and 
harmless poodle, known as Social Ostracism. 
This poodle is old, toothless, and given over 
to introspection; it has to be fed on pap; 
its only exercise is to exploit the horse- 
blocks, doze in milady's lap, and dream 
of a long lost canine paradise. The dog- 
catcher waits around the comer. 

Philip III. was an etiolate and perfumed 
dandy. In him culture had begun to turn 
yellow. Men who pride themselves upon 
their culture have n't any of which to 



Spanfeb 
flnquisitton 



232 



Xlttle 5ournep0 



Pbtupirnif speak. All the beauties of art, this man 
thought were exclusively for him and his 
precious company of lisping exquisites, 
and giggling, mincing queans. The thought 
that those who create beauty are also 
they who possess it, never dawned upon 
this crack-pated son of tired sheets. 

He lived to enjoy — and so he never 
enjoyed anything. Surfeit and satiety over- 
took him in the royal hog- wallow ; digestion 
and zest took flight. Philip III. speedily 
became a wooden Indian on wheels, moved 
by his Minister of State, the Duke of Lerma. 

Huge animals sustain huge parasites, 
and so the Court of Philip III., with its 
fools, dwarfs, idiots, and all of its dancing, 
jiggling, wasteful folly, did not succeed 
in wrecking the land. When Philip III. 
travelled he sent hundreds of men ahead 
to beat the swamps, day and night, in the 
vicinity of his royal presence, so as to 
silence the frogs. He thought their croak- 
ing was a personal matter meant for him. 

I think he was right. How the lords of 
death must chuckle in defiant glee when 
they send malaria and night into the 
palaces of the great through cracks and 
crevices! Philip's bloated, unkingly body 



lDelasque3 



233 



became full of disease and pain; lingering 
unrest racked him; the unseen demons he 
could not exorcise, danced on his bed, 
wrenched his members, and played mad 
havoc with each quivering nerve. And so 
he died. 

Then comes Philip IV., immortal through 
his forty portraits painted by Velasquez. 
Philip was only fourteen when his father 
died. He was a rare-ripe and showed 
strength and decision far beyond his years. 
His grandfather, Philip H., was his ideal, 
and he let it be known right speedily that 
his reign was to be one of moderation and 
simplicity, modelled along the lines of Philip 
the Great. 

The Duke of Lerma, Minister of State, 
who had so long been the actual ruler 
of Spain, was deposed and into his place 
slipped the sauve and handsome Olivares, 
gentleman-in- waiting to the young King. 

Olivares was from Seville, and had known 
the family of Velasquez. It was through 
his influence that Diego so soon got the 
nod of royalty. The King was eighteen, 
Velasquez was twenty-four, and Olivares 
not much older — all boys together. And 
the fact that Velasquez secured the appoint- 



pbiUp 1ID 



234 



Xtttle Joutnei^s 



oiivaves ment of Court Painter with such ease was 
probably owing to his dashing horseman- 
ship, as much as to his being a skilful 
painter. 

At Harvard once I saw a determined 
effort made to place a famous "right 
tackle" in the chair of Assistant Professor 
of Rhetoric. The plan was only given over 
with great reluctance, when it was dis- 
covered that the " right tackle" was beauti- 
fully ignorant of the subject he would have 
to tackle. Even then it was urged he 
could ''cram" — ^keeping one lesson in ad- 
vance of his class. 

But Olivares knew Velasquez could paint, 
and the artist's handsome face, stalwart 
frame, and fearless riding did the rest. The 
young King was considered the best horse- 
man in Madrid — ^Velasquez and Olivares 
took pains never to outdo him in the joust. 

The biography of Olivares as a study 
of life is a better subject far than either 
the life of Velasquez or the King. Their 
lives were too successful to be interesting. 
Olivares is a fine example of a man growing 
great through exercise. Read history and 
behold how commonplace men have often 
had greatness thrust upon them and met the 



IDelasques 



235 



issue. I have seen an absurd Class B 
lawyer elevated into a judgeship, and rise 
to the level of events, keeping silence, 
looking wise, hugging his dignity hard, 
until there came a time when the dignity 
really was a fair fit. Trotters often need 
toe- weights to give them ballast and balance 
— so do men need responsibility. We have 
had at least three commonplace men for 
president of the United States, who live 
in history as adequately great — and they 
were. Various and sundry good folk will 
here rise and say the germ of greatness 
w^as in these men all the time, awaiting 
the opportunity to unfold. And the answer 
is correct, right, and proper; but a codicil 
should then be added to the effect that the 
germ of greatness is in every man, but we 
fall victims of arrested development, and 
success or society, like a worm i' the bud, 
feeds on our damask cheek. 

Philip was nipped i' the bud by falling 
into the protecting shadow of Olivares. 
The prime minister provided boar-hunts 
and tourneys and masquerades and fetes. 
Philip's life of simplicity faded off into 
dressing in black — all else went on as before. 
Philip glided into the line of least resistance 



1Rippe5« in 
tbe 3Bu6 



236 



Xtttle Jourueps 



Court 
painters 



and signed every paper that he was told to 
sign by his gracious, winning, inflexible 
minister — ^the true type of the iron hand 
in the velvet glove. From his twentieth 
year, after that first little fury of pretended 
power, the novelty of ruling wore away; 
and for over forty years he never either 
vetoed an act or initiated one. His minis- 
ters arranged his recreations, his gallantries, 
his hours of sleep. He was ruled and never 
knew it, and here the Richelieu-like Oli- 
vares showed his power. It was anything 
to keep the King from thinking, and Spain, 
the Mother of Magnificence, went drifting 
to her death. 

There were already three Court Painters 
when Velasquez received his appointment. 
They were Italians appointed by Philip III. 
Their heads were full of tradition and prece- 
dent, and they painted like their masters 
who had been pupils of men who had worked 
with Titian — ^beautiful attenuations three 
times reduced. We only know their 
names now because they raised a pretty 
chorus of protest when Velasquez appeared 
at the palace. They worked all the wires 
they knew to bring about his downfall, 
and then dwindled away into chronic 



IDelasQuej 



237 



artistic jealousy, which finally struck in; 
and they were buried. That the plots, 
challenges, and constant knockings of these 
underling Court painters ever affected Ve- 
lasquez, we cannot see. He swung right 
along at prodigious strides, living his own 
life, — a life outside and beyond all the 
pretence and vanity of place and power. 

The King came by a secret passage daily 
to the studio to watch Velasquez work. 
There was always a chair for him, and the 
King even had an easel and sets of brushes 
and a palette where he played at painting. 
Pacheco, who had come up to Madrid and 
buzzed around, encroaching on the Samuel 
Pepys copyright, has said that the King 
was a skilled painter. But this statement 
was for publication during the King's 
lifetime. 

When Velasquez could not keep the King 
quiet in any other way, it seems he made 
him sit for his picture. The studio was 
never without an unfinished portrait of the 
King. From eighteen to sixty he sat to 
Velasquez — and it is always that same 
tall, spindle-legged, impassive form, and 
the dull, unspeaking face. There is no 
thought there, no aspiration, no hope 



IDelaeques 

anb tbe 

fking 



238 Xtttle 5ournei^0 



'c^be too great for earth, no unrequited love, no 
star^ dream unrealised. The King was incapable 
of love as he was of hate. And Velasquez 
did not use his art to flatter; he had the 
artistic conscience. Truth was his guiding 
star. And the greatness of Velasquez is 
shown in that all subjects were equally 
^ alike to him. He did not select the classic 
or peculiar. Little painters are always 
choosing their subjects and explaining 
that this or that may be pretty or interest- 
ing, but they will tell you it is " unpaintable " 
— ^Vv^hich means that they cannot paint 
it. 

'*I can write well on any topic — all are 
alike to me!" said Dean Swift to Stella. 
" Then write me an essay on a broomstick," 
answered Stella. 

And Swift wrote the essay — ^fuU of ab- 
struse reasons, playful wit, and charming 
insight. 

The long, oval, dull face of Philip lured 
Velasquez. He analysed every possible 
shade of emotion of which this man was 
capable, and stripped his soul bare. The 
sallow skin, thin curling locks, nerveless 
hands and unmeaning eyes are upon the 
walls of every gallery of Christendom, — 



tt)elasgue3 



239 



matchless specimens of the power to sink 
self, and reveal the subject. 

That is why Whistler is right when he 
says that Velasquez is the painters' painter. 
The Blacksmith by Whistler shows you 
the blacksmith, not Whistler; Rembrandt's 
pictures of his mother show the woman; 
Franz Hals gives you the Burgomaster, 
not himself. Shakespeare of all writers is 
the most impersonal — ^he does not give 
himself away. 

When Rubens painted a portrait of 
Philip II. he put a dash of daring, exuberant 
health in the face that was never there. 
The health and joy of life was in Rubens 
and he could not keep it off his palette. 
There is a sameness in every Rubens, be- 
cause the imagination of the man ran over, 
and falsified his colours: he always gives 
you a deal of Rubens. 

But stay! that expression "sinking self," 
is only a figure of speech. At the last the 
true artist never sinks self: he is always 
supreme and towers above every subject, 
every object that he portrays. The riotous 
health and good cheer of Rubens marked 
the man's limitations. He was not great 
enough to comprehend the small, the 



IRubens 



240 



Xittle Sourness 



setHpart delicate, the insignificant and the absurd. 
Only a very great man can paint dwarfs, 
idiots, topers, and kings. And so the many- 
sidedness of the great man continually 
deceives the world into thinking that he is 
the thing with which he associates ; or, on 
the other hand, we say he "sinks self" 
for the time, whereas the truth is that in his 
own nature he comprehends the whole. 
Shakespeare being the universal man, we 
lose him in the labyrinth of his winding 
and wondrous imagination. The great com- 
prehends the less. 

The beginner paints what he sees; or, 
more properly, he paints what he thinks 
he sees. If he grows he will next paint 
what he imagines, as Rubens did. Then 
there is another stage which completes 
the spiral and comes back to the place of 
beginning, — and the painter will again 
paint what he sees. 

This Velasquez did, and this is what 
sets him apart. The difference between 
the last stage and the first is that the artist 
has learned to see. To write is nothing — 
to know what to write is much. To paint 
is nothing — ^to see and know the object you 
are attempting to portray, is everything. 



IDelasques 



241 



" Shall I paint the thing just as I see it ? " 
asked the ingenue of the great artist. 
"Why, yes," was the answer, "provided 
you do not see the thing as you paint it." 



ff»afntiiifi 

Timbat ®ne 

Seea 



242 



VII 



an& tbe 
fi)ainter 



THE King and the painter grew old to- 
gether. They met on a common ground 
of horses, dogs, and art; and while the 
King used these things to kill time and cause 
him to forget self, the painter found horses 
and dogs good for rest and recreation. But 
art was for Velasquez a religion, a sacred 
passion. 

Nominally the Court Painter ranked 
with the Court Barber, and his allowance 
was the same. But Velasquez ruled the 
King, and the King knew it not. Like all 
wasteful, dissolute men, Phillip IV. had 
spasms of repentance when he sought by 
absurd economy to atone for folly. We 
are all familiar with individuals who will 
blow to the four winds good money, and 
much of it, on needless meat and drink 
for those who are neither hungry nor 



l^clasGues 



243 



athirst, and take folks for a carriage ride 
who should be abed, and then the next day 
buy a sandwich for dinner and walk a 
mile to save a five-cent carfare. Some 
of us have done these things; and so 
occasionally Philip would dole out money 
to buy canvas and complain of the size 
of it, and ask in injured tone how many 
pictures Velasquez had painted from that 
last bolt of cloth ! 

But Velasquez was a diplomat and hu- 
moured his liege; yet when the artist died, 
the administrator of his estate had to 
sue the State for a settlement, and it was 
ten years before the final amount due the 
artist was paid. After twenty years of 
devotion Olivares — outmatched by Riche- 
lieu in the game of statecraft — fell into 
disrepute and was dismissed from office. 
Monarchies like republics are ungrateful. 
Velasquez sided with his old friend Oli- 
vares in the quarrel, and thus risked incur- 
ring the sore displeasure of the King. The 
King could replace his Minister of State, 
but there was no one to take the place of 
the artist ; so Philip bottled his wrath, gave 
Velasquez the right of his private opinion, 
and refused to accept his resignation. 



Diplomat 



244 



Xittle 5ournep0 



Urfps to 

mm 



There seems little doubt that it was a 
calamity for Velasquez that Philip did not 
send him flying into disgrace with Olivares. 
Had Velasquez been lifted out on the toe 
of the King's displeasure, Italy would have 
claimed him, and the Vatican would have 
opened wide its doors. There, relieved 
of financial badgering, in the company of 
his equals, encouraged and uplifted, he 
might have performed such miracles in 
form and colour that even the wonderful 
ceiling of the Chapel of the Sistine would 
have faded into mediocre. 

And again he might not — ^what more 
idle and fascinating than such speculation? 
That the King endured the calm rebuke of 
Velasquez, when Olivares was deposed, 
and still retained the painter in favour, was 
probably because Rubens had assured 
the King that Velasquez as an artist was 
the master of any man in all Europe. 

Velasquez made two trips to Italy, being 
sent on royal embassies to purchase statuary 
for the Prado Gallery, and incidentally to 
copy pictures. So there is many a Veron- 
ese, Tintoretto, and Titian now in the 
Prado that was copied by Velasquez. 

Think of the value of a Titian copied by 



lDelasque3 



245 



Velasquez? And so faithfully was the 
copying done, even to inserting the signature 
initials and date, that much doubt exists 
as to what pictures are genuine and what 
copies. 

When Rubens appeared at the Court 
of Madrid, sent by the Duke of Mantua, 
with presents of Old Masters (done by 
himself) I cannot but imagine the quiet 
confession, with smiles and popping of 
corks, that occurred when the wise and 
princely Rubens, and the equally wise 
and princely Velasquez got together in 
some private comer. 

The advent of Rubens at Madrid sent a 
thrill through the entire Court, and a lesser 
man than Velasquez would have quaked 
with apprehension when he found the King 
sitting to Rubens for a portrait in his own 
studio. 

Not so Velasquez — ^he had done the King 
on canvas a score of times; no one else 
had ever been allowed to paint the King's 
portrait — and he was curious to see how 
the picture would come out. 

Rubens, twenty- two years the senior 
of Velasquez, shrank a bit, it seems, from 
the contest, and connoisseurs have said 



IRubens 

at i:i^Ja^)ri^ 



246 



%ittlc 5ournei^s 



Ipupils 



that there is a little lack of the exuberant, 
joyous Rubenesque quality in the various 
pictures done by the gracious Fleming in 
Spain. 

The taunt that many of the pictures 
attributed to Rubens were done by his 
pupils loses its point when we behold the 
prodigious amount of work that the master 
accomplished at Madrid in nine months — 
a dozen portraits, several groups, a score 
of pictures copied. And besides this, there 
was time for horseback rides when the 
King, Rubens, and Velasquez galloped away 
together, when they climbed mountains 
and when there were fetes and receptions to 
attend. Rubens was then over fifty, but 
the fire of his youth and that joyous 
animation of the morning, the years had 
not subdued. 

Velasquez had many pupils, but in 
Murillo his skill as a teacher is best revealed. 
Several of his pupils painted exactly like 
him, save that they neglected to breathe 
into the nostrils of their work the breath 
of life. But Velasquez seems to have 
encouraged Murillo to follow the bent of 
his moody and melancholy genius — so 
Murillo was himself, not a diluted Velasquez. 



lDelasque5 



247 



The strong administrative ability of 
Velasquez was prized by the King as much 
as his ability as a painter, and he was, 
therefore, advanced to the position of 
Master of Ceremonies. In this work with 
its constant demand of close attention to 
petty details, his latter days were consumed. 
He died, aged sixty-one, a victim to tasks 
that were not worth the doing, but which 
the foolish King considered as important 
as painting deathless pictures. 

So closely was the life of his wife blended 
with his own that in eight days after his 
passing, she followed him across the border, 
although the physicians declared that she 
had no disease. Husband and wife were 
buried in one grave in a church that a 
hundred years later was burned and never 
rebuilt. No stone marks their resting 
place; and none is needed, for Velasquez 
lives in his work. The truth, splendour, and 
beauty that he produced are on a hundred 
walls — the inspiration of men who do and 
dare — the priceless heritage of us who 
live to-day and those who shall come after. 



faster 
of Ceres 
monies 



COROT 



249 



251 



The sun sinks more and more behind the horizon. 
Bam! he throws his last ray, a streak of gold and 
purple which fringes the flying clouds. There, now 
it has entirely disappeared, Bien! bien! twilight 
commences. Heavens, how charming it is! There 
is now in the sky only the soft vaporous colour of 
pale citron — the last reflection of the sun which 
plunges into the dark blue of the night, going from 
green tones to a pale turquoise of an unheard-of 
fineness and a fluid delicacy quite indescribable. . . 

The fields lose their colour, the trees form but 
grey or brown masses . . . the dark waters 
reflect the bland tones of the sky. We are losing 
sight of things — but one still feels that everything 
is there — everything is vague, confused, and Nature 
grows drowsy. The fresh evening air sighs among 
the leaves — the birds, these voices of the flowers 
are saying their evening prayer. 



Sunset 



Corot's Letter to Graham. 
Translated by David Croal Thompson. 



1 1 



25, 



MOST young artists begin by working 
for microscopic effects, trying to 
portray every detail, to see every leaf, stem, 
and branch, and reveal them in the picture. 

The ability to draw carefully and fin- 
ish painstakingly is very necessary, but 
the great artist must forget how to draw 
before he paints a great picture; just as 
every strong writer must put the gram- 
mar upon the shelf before he writes well. 
I once heard William Dean Howells say 
that any good, bright high school girl of 
sixteen could pass a far better examination 
in rhetoric than he could — and the ad- 
mission did Mr. Howells no discredit. 

" Would you advise me to take a course 
in elocution?" once asked a young man 
with oratorical ambitions of Henry Ward 
Beecher. 



S)ctails 



254 



Xlttle Journeys 



3Beg(nn(ngs ''Yes, by all means. Study elocution 
very carefully, but you will have to forget 
it all before you ever become an orator," 
was the answer. 

Corot began as a child by drawing very 
rude, crude, uncertain pictures, just such 
pictures as any schoolboy can draw. Next 
he began to "complete" his sketches, and 
work with infinite pains. If he sketched 
a house he showed whether the roof was 
shingled or made of straw or tile; his 
trees revealed the texture of the bark and 
showed the shape of the leaf, and every 
flower contained its pistil and stamens 
and told the man knew his botany. Two 
of his pictures done in Rome in his 
twenty-ninth year. The Coliseum and The 
Forum, now in the Louvre, are good 
pictures — complete in detail, painstaking, 
accurate, hard and tight in technique. They 
are bomb-proof — ^beyond criticism — abso- 
lutely safe. 

Have a care, Corot. Keep where you 
are and you will become an irreproachable 
painter. That is to say, you will paint 
just like a hundred other French painters. 
There will be a market for your wares, 
the critics will approve, and at the Salon 



Corot 



255 



your work will never be either enskyed or 
consigned to the catacombs. Society will 
court you, fair ladies will smile and en- 
courage. You will be a success; your 
name will be safely pigeon-holed among 
the unobjectionable ones and before your 
wind-combed shock of hair has turned to 
silver, you will be supplanted by a new 
crop of fashion's favourites. 



jFasbfon's 
jfavourttes 



256 



II 



Cbiliren 

of tbe 

/Metropolis 



IT is a fact worth noting that the two 
greatest landscape painters of all time 
were city-born and city-bred. Turner 
was bom in London, the son of a barber, 
and fate held him so in leash that he never 
got beyond the sound of Bow Bells until 
he was a man grown. Corot was bom 
in Paris, and his first outdoor sketch, 
made at twenty-two, was done amidst 
the din and jostle of the quays of the 
Seine. 

Five strong men made up the Barbizon 
School, and of these, three were reared in 
Paris, Paris the frivolous, Paris the pleasure- 
loving: Corot, Rousseau, and Daubigny 
were children of the metropolis. 

I state these facts in the interests of 
truth, and also to ease conscience, for I am 
aware that I have glorified the country 



Corot 



•57 



boy in pages gone before, as if God were 
kind to him alone. 

Turner made over a million dollars by 
the work of his hands (reinforced by head 
and heart) ; and left a discard of nineteen 
thousand sketches to the British nation. 
Was ever such an example of concentration, 
energy, and industry known in the history 
of art? 

Corot, six feet one, weight two hundred, 
ruddy, simple, guileless, singing softly to 
himself as he walked, in peasant blouse, 
and sabot-shod, used to come up to Paris, 
his birthplace, two or three times a year, 
and the gamins would follow him on the 
streets, making remarks irrelevant and 
comments uncomplimentary, just as they 
might follow old Joshua Whitcomb on 
Broadway in New York. 

British grandees often dress like farmers, 
for pride may manifest itself in simplicity, 
but the disinterested pose of Camille Corot, 
if pose it was, fitted him as the feathers 
fit a wild duck. If pose is natural it surely 
is not pose: and Corot, the simplest man 
in the world, was regarded by the many 
as a man of mannerisms. His work was 
so quiet and modest that the art world 



■fln 85ar(s 



258 



Xittle Journeys 



Corot" 



refused to regard it seriously. Corot was 
as unpretentious as Walt Whitman and 
just as free from vanity. 

During the War of the Rebellion, Whit- 
man bankrupted himself in purse and body 
by caring for the stricken soldiers. At the 
siege of Paris, Corot could have kept 
outside of the barriers, but safety for him- 
self he would not accept. He remained 
in the city, refused every comfort that he 
could not divide with others, spent all the 
money he had in caring for the wounded-, 
nursed the sick by night and day, listened 
to the confessions of the dying, and closed 
the eyes of the dead. To everybody, 
especially the simple folk, the plain, the 
unpretentious, the unknown, he was " Papa 
Corot," and ever3rwhere did the stalwart 
old man of seventy-five carry hope, good 
cheer, and a courage that never faltered. 

Corot, like Whitman, had the happiness 
to have no history. 

Corot used paint just as if no one had 
ever painted before, and Whitman wrote 
as if he were the first man who had ever 
expressed himself in verse — precedent stood 
for naught. Each had all the time there 
was; they were never in a hurry; they 



Corot 



259 



loafed and invited their souls; they loved 
all women so well that they never could 
make a choice of one; both were ridiculed 
and hooted and misunderstood ; recognition 
came to neither until they were about to 
depart; and yet in spite of the continual 
rejection of their work, and the stupidity 
that would not see, and the ribaldry of 
those who could not comprehend, they 
continued serenely on their way, unruffled, 
kind, — making no apologies nor explana- 
tions — unresentful, with malice toward 
none, and charity for all. 

The world is still divided as to whether 
Walt Whitman was simply a coarse and 
careless writer, without either skill, style, 
or insight ; or one with such a subtle, spirit- 
ual vision, such a penetration into the 
heart of things that few comparatively 
can follow him. 

During forty years of Corot's career the 
critics said, when they deigned to mention 
Corot at all, *' There are two worlds, God's 
world and Corot's world." He was re- 
garded as a harmless lunatic, who saw things 
differently from others, and so they in- 
dulged him, and at the Salon hung his 
pictures in the ''Catacombs" with many 



"TOlbftman 

an& Corot 



26o 



Xtttle Journeys 



♦«Corot 
mature" 



a sly joke at his expense. The expression 
*'Corot Nature" is with us yet. 

But now the idea has gradually gained 
ground that Camille Corot looked for 
beauty and found it — ^that he painted what 
he saw, and that he saw things that the 
average man, through incapacity, never 
sees at all. Science has taught us that 
there are sounds so subtle that our coarse 
senses cannot recognise them, and there 
are thousands of tints, combinations, and 
variations in colour that the unaided or 
uneducated eye cannot detect. 

If Corot saw more than we, why denounce 
Corot? And so Corot has gradually and 
very slowly come into recognition as one 
who had power plus — ^it was we who were 
weak, we who were faulty, not he. The 
stones that were cast at him have been 
gathered up and cemented into a monu- 
ment to his memory. 



Ill 



261 



THE father of Camille Corot was a peas- 
ant who drifted over to Paris to make 
his fortune. He was active, acute, intelli- 
gent, and economical — and when a French- 
man is economical his economy is of a 
kind that makes the Connecticut brand 
look like extravagance. 

This young man became a clerk in a 
dry-goods store that had a millinery at- 
tachment, as most French dry-goods stores 
have. He was precise, accurate, had a 
fair education, and always wore a white 
cravat. In the millinery department of 
this store was employed, among many 
others, a Swiss girl who had come up to 
Paris on her own account to get a knowledge 
of millinery and dressmaking. When this 
was gained she intended to go back to 
Switzerland, the land of liberty and Swiss 



Ube 
Clerb 



262 



Xtttle Soutneigs 



H Corns 
petent 
Ipeople 



cheese, and there live out her life in her 
native village making finery for the villagers 
for a consideration. 

She did not go back to Switzerland, 
because she very shortly married the pre- 
cise young dry-goods clerk who wore the 
white cravat. 

The Swiss are the most competent people 
on this globe of ours, which is round like 
an orange and slightly flattened at the 
poles. There is less illiteracy, less pauper- 
ism, less drunkenness, more general intelli- 
gence, more freedom in Switzerland than 
in any other country on earth. This has 
been so for two hundred years: and the 
reason, some say, is that she has no standing 
army and no navy. She is surrounded 
by big nations that are so jealous of her 
that they will not allow each other to 
molest her. She is not big enough to 
fight them. Being too little to declare war 
she makes a virtue of necessity and so just 
minds her own business. That is the only 
way an individual can succeed — ^mind your 
own business — and it is also the best policy 
with a nation. 

The way the Swiss think things out with 
their heads and materialise them with their 



Corot 



263 



hands is veiy wonderful. In all the Swiss 
schools the pupils draw, sew, carve wood, 
and make things. Pestalozzi was Swiss, 
and Froebel was more Swiss than German. 
Manual training and the kindergarten are 
Swiss ideas. All of our progress in the 
line of pedagogy that the years have 
brought has consisted in carrying kinder- 
garten ideas into the little red school house, 
and elsewhere. 

The world is debtor to the Swiss — ^the 
carmine of their ideas has tinted the whole 
thought-fabric of civilisation. The Swiss 
know how. Skilled workmen from Swit- 
zerland are in demand everywhere. 

That Swiss girl in the Paris shop was a 
skilled needlewoman, and the good taste 
and talent she showed in her work was a 
joy to her employers. There are hints 
that they tried to discourage her marriage 
with the clerk in the white cravat. What 
a loss to the art world if they had succeeded ! 
But love is stronger than business ambition, 
and so the milliner married the young clerk, 
and they had a very modest little nest to 
which they flew when the day's work was 
done. 

In a year a domestic emergency made 



H Swiss 
ilDininei; 



264 



OLlttle 3ournei50 



ilDotber 



it advisable for the young woman to stay 
at home, but she kept right along with her 
sewing. Some of the customers hunted 
her up and wanted her to work for 
them. 

When the stress of the little exigency 
was safely passed, the young mother 
found she could make more by working 
at home for special customers. A girl was 
hired to help her, then two — ^three. 

The rooms down stairs were secured, and 
a show window put in. This was at 
the comer of the Rue du Bac and the Pont 
Royal, within sight of the Louvre. It is 
an easy place to find, and you would better 
take a look at the site the next time you 
are in Paris — ^it is sacred soil. 

Corot has told us much about his mother 
— a Frenchman is apt to regard his father 
simply as a necessary though often incon- 
venient appendage, possibly absorbing the 
idea from the maternal side of the house — 
but his mother is his solace, comforter, and 
friend. The mother of Corot was intelli- 
gent, industrious, tactful; sturdy in body 
and strong in mind. 

In due course of time she built up a 
paying business, bought the house in which 



Cotot 



265 



they lived, and laid by a goodly dot for 
her son and two daughters. And all the 
time Corot pere wore the white cravat, a 
precise smile for customers, and an austere 
look for his family. He held his old posi- 
tion as floor- walker and gave respectability 
to his wife's millinery and dressmaking 
establishment. 

The father's ambition for Camille was 
that he should become a model floor- walker, 
treading in the father's footsteps; and so 
while yet a child, the boy was put to work 
in a dry-goods store, with the idea of disci- 
pline strong in mind. 

And for this discipline, in after years 
Corot was grateful. It gave him the 
habit of putting things away, keeping 
accurate accounts, systematising his work 
and throughout his forty years or more 
of artistic life, it was his proud boast that 
he reached his studio every morning at 
three minutes before eight. 

Young Corot 's mother had quite a little 
skill as a draughtsman. In her business 
she drew designs for patterns, and if the 
prospective customer lacked imagination 
she could draw a sketch of the garment 
as it would look when completed. 



S>i0cipnne 



266 



Xlttle 5ourne^s 



sftetcbing Savage tribes make pictures long before 
they acquire an alphabet ; so do all children 
make pictures before they learn to read. 
The evolution of the child mirrors the 
evolution of the race. Camille made pictures 
just as all boys do, and his mother encour- 
aged him in this, and supplied him copies. 

When he was set to work in the dry- 
goods store he made sketches under the 
counter and often ornamented bundles 
with needless hieroglyphics. But these 
things did not necessarily mean that he 
was to be a great artist — ^thousands of dry- 
goods clerks have sketched and been 
ary-goods clerks to the end of their days. 
But good dry-goods clerks should not 
sketch too much or too well, else they will 
not rise in their career and some day have 
charge of a department. 

Camille Corot did not get along at 
haberdashery — ^his heart was not in it. 
He was not quite so bad as a certain bud- 
ding, artistic genius I once knew, who 
clerked in a grocery store, and when a 
woman came in and ordered a dozen of 
eggs and a half bushel of potatoes, the 
genius counted out a dozen potatoes, and 
sent the customer a half bushel of eggs. 



Corot 



267 



Then there was that absent-minded 
young drug clerk, who when a stranger 
entered and inquired for the proprietor, 
answered, " He 's out just at present, but 
w^e have something that is just as good." 

Corot had n't the ability to make folks 
think they needed something they did not 
want — ^they only got what they wanted, 
after much careful diplomacy and insis- 
tence. These things were a great cross 
to Corot pere, and the dulness of the boy 
made the good father grow old before his 
time — so the father alleged. Were the 
woes of parents written in books, the 
world would not be big enough to contain 
the books. Camille Corot was a failure — 
he was big, fat, lazy, and tantalisingly 
good-natured. He haunted the Louvre, 
and stood open-mouthed before the pictures 
of Claude Lorraine until the attendants 
requested him to move on. His mother 
knew something of art, and they used to 
discuss all the new pictures together. The 
father protested: he declared that the 
mother was encouraging the boy in his 
vascillation and dreaminess. 

Camille lost his position. His father got 
him another, and after a month they laid 



Tin tbc 
3Louvre 



268 



Xtttle Joutnei^s 



■ffnvfncfble 

©oob 
mature 



him off for two weeks, and then sent him 
a note not to come back. He hung around 
home, played the violin, and sang for his 
mother's sewing girls while they worked. 
The girls all loved him — ^if the mother went 
out and left him in charge of the shop, 
he gave all hands a play-spell until it was 
time for Madame to return. His good 
nature was invincible. He laughed at 
the bonnets in the windows, slyly sketched 
the customers who came to try on the 
frivolities, and even made irrelevant re- 
marks to his mother about the petite 
fortune she was deriving from cater- 
ing to dead-serious nabobs who discussed 
flounces, bows, stays, and beribboned gew- 
gaws as though they were eternal verities. 
"Mamma is a sculptor who improves 
upon Nature," one day Camille said to the 
girls. "If a woman has n't a good form 
Madame Corot can supply her such amo- 
rous proportions that lovers will straight- 
way fall at her feet." But such jocular 
remarks were never made to the father — 
in his presence Camille was subdued and 
suspiciously respectful. The father had 
"disciplined" him — ^but had done nothing 
else. 



Cotot 



269 



Camille had a companion in Achille 
Michallon, son of the sculptor, Claude 
Michallon. Young Michallon modelled in 
clay and painted fairly well, and it was he 
who no doubt, fired the mind of young 
Corot to follow an artistic career, to which 
Corot the elder was very much opposed. 

So matters drifted and Camille Corot, 
aged twenty-six, was a flat failure, just 
as he had been for ten years. He had n't 
self-reliance to push out for himself, nor 
enough will to swing his parents into his 
way of thinking. He was as submissive 
as a child; and would not and could not 
do anything until he had gotten permission 
— ^thus much for discipline. 

Finally, in desperation, his father said, 
" Camille, you are of an age when you should 
be at the head of a business, but since you 
refuse to avail yourself of your opportun- 
ities and become a merchant, why, then, 
I '11 settle upon you the sum of three 
hundred dollars a year for life and you 
can follow your own inclinations. But 
depend upon it, you shall have no more 
than I have named. I am done — now go 
and do what you want." 

The words are authentic, being taken 



m fflat 
jfallurc 



270 



Xtttle Journeys 



I 



IBcginning 

of mrtfstlc 

Caceec 



down from Corot's own lips; and they 
sound singularly like that remark made 
to Alfred Tennyson by his grandfather, 
" Here is a guinea for your poem, and 
depend upon it, this is the first and last 
money you will ever receive for poetry." 

Camille was so delighted to hear his 
father's decision that he burst into tears 
and embraced the austere and stern-faced 
parent in the white cravat. 

Straightway he would begin his artistic 
career, and having so announced his in- 
tention to the sewing girls in an impromptu 
operatic aria, he took easel and paints 
and went down on the tow-path to paint 
his first outdoor picture. 

Soon the girls came trooping after, in 
order to see Monsieur Camille at his work. 
One girl. Mile. Rose, staid longer than the 
rest. Corot told of the incident in 1858 — 
a lapse of thirty years — and added, *' I 
have not married — Mile. Rose has not 
married — ^she is alive yet, and only last 
week was here to see me. Ah! what 
changes have taken place — I have that 
first picture I painted yet — it is the same 
picture and still shows the hour and the 
season, but Mile. Rose and I, where are we? " 



IV 



271 



TURNER and Corot trace back to the 
same artistic ancestor. It was Claude 
who first fired the heart of the barber's boy, 
and it was Claude who diluted the zeal of 
Camille Corot for ribbons and haberdashery. 

Turner stipulated in his will that a certain 
picture of his should hang on the walls of 
the National Gallery by the side of a 
"Claude Lorraine"; and to-day in the 
Louvre you can see, side by side, a " Corot" 
and a "Claude." These men are strangely 
akin; yet so far as I know, Corot never 
heard of Turner. However, he was power- 
fully influenced by Constable, the English 
painter, who was of the same age as Turner, 
and for a time, his one bitter rival. 

Claude had been dead a hundred years 
before Constable, Turner, or Corot was bom. 
But time is an illusion; all souls are of one 



Hrtfstfc 
Bncestor 



272 



%ittlc ^onvncv^ 



5obn 
Constable 



age, and in spirit these men were contem- 
poraries and brothers. Claude, Corot, and 
Turner never married — ^they were wedded 
to art. Constable ripened fast; he got 
his reward of golden guineas, and society 
caught him in its silken mesh. Success 
came faster than he was able to endure it, 
and he fell a victim to fatty degeneration 
of the cerebrum, and died of an acute attack 
of self-complacency. 

It was about the year 1832, that Con- 
stable gave an exhibition of his work in 
Paris — a somewhat daring thing for an 
Englishman to do. Paris had then, and 
has yet, about the same estimate of English 
art that the English have now of ours — 
although it is quite in order to explain in 
parentheses that three Americans, Whistler, 
Sargent, and Abbey, have recently called 
a halt on English ribaldry as applied to 
American artists. 

But John Constable's exhibit in Paris 
met with favour — ^the work was singularly 
like the work of Claude Lorraine, the critics 
said. And it was, for Constable had copied 
Claude conscientiously. Corot saw the 
Englishman's pictures, realised that they 
were just such pictures as he would like 



(Torot 



273 



to paint, and so fell down and worshipped 
them. For a year he dropped Claude and 
painted just like Constable. 

There was a time when Turner and Con- 
stable painted just alike, for they had 
the same master; but there came a day 
when Turner shoved out from shore, and 
no man since has been able to follow 
him. 

And no one can copy Corot. The work 
that he did after he attained freedom and 
swung away from Claude and Constable 
has an illusive, intangible, subtle and 
spiritual quality that no imitator can ever 
catch on his canvas. Corot could not even 
copy his own pictures — ^his work is bom 
of the spirit. His effects are something 
beyond skill of hand, something beyond 
mere knowledge of technique. You can 
copy a Claude and you can copy a Consta- 
ble, for the pictures have well defined out- 
line and the forms are tangible. Claude 
was the first painter who showed the 
shimmering sunlight on the leaves, the 
upturned foliage of the silver poplar, 
the yellow willows bending beneath the 
breeze, the sweep of the clouds across the 
sky, the play of the waves across the sea- 



Spiritual 
(SlualitTS 
of TKHorfc 



274 



Xlttle Sourness 



B Bating 
©ualits 



shore, the glistening dewdrops on the grass, 
the soft stealing rnists of twilight. 

Constable did all this, too, and he did 
it as well as Claude, but no better. He 
never got beyond the stage of microscopic 
portrayal; .if he painted a dewdrop he 
painted it, and his blades of grass, swaying 
lily stems, and spider webs are the genuine 
articles. 

Corot painted in this minute way for many 
years, but gradually he evolved a daring 
quality and gave us the effect of dew- 
drops, the spider threads, the foliage, the 
tall lilies without painting them at all — ^he 
gives you the feeling, that is all, stirs the 
imagination until the beholder, if his heart 
be in tune, sees things that only the spiritual 
eye beholds. 

The pale silvery tones of Corot, the 
shadowy boundaries that separate the 
visible can never be imitated without 
the Master's penetration into the heart 
of nature. He knew things he could never 
explain, and he held secrets, he could not 
impart. Before his pictures we can only 
stand silent — ^he disarms criticism and 
strikes the quibbler dumb. Before a Corot 
you would better give way, and let its 



Corot 275 



beauty caress your soul. His colours are q°i^^'^ 
thin and very simple — there is no challenge 
in his work as there is in the work of 
Turner. Greens and greys predominate, 
and the plain, drab tones are blithe, airy, 
gracious, graceful, and piquant as a beauti- 
ful young Quaker woman clothed in the 
garb of simplicity and humility — ^but a 
woman still. Corot coquettes with colour — 
with pale lilac, silver grey, and diaphanous 
green. He poetises everything he touches 
— quiet ponds, clumps of bushes, white- 
washed cottages, simple swards, yellow 
cows, blowsy peasants, woodland openings, 
stretching meadows and winding streams — 
they are all full of divine suggestion and 
joyous expectancy. Something is just go- 
ing to happen — somebody is coming, some 
one we love — you can almost detect a faint 
perfume, long remembered, never to be 
forgotten. A Corot is a tryst with all 
that you most admire and love best — it 
speaks of youth, joyous, hopeful, expectant 
youth. 

If the Greeks had left us any paint- 
ings, they would all have been just like 
Corot's. 



276 



flDoo&s of 
IRaptuve 



THE bubbling, boyish good cheer that 
Corot possessed is well shown in a letter 
he once wrote to Stevens Graham. This 
letter was written, without doubt, in that 
fine intoxication which comes after work 
well done; and no greater joy ever comes 
to a mortal in life than this. 

George Moore tells somewhere of catching 
Corot in one of these moods of rapture : the 
Master was standing alone on a log in the 
woods, like a dancing faun, leading an 
imaginary orchestra with silent but tre- 
mendous gusto. At other times when 
Corot captured certain effects in a picture, 
he would rush across the fields to where 
there was a peasant ploughing, and seizing 
the astonished man, would lead him over and 
stand him before the canvas crying, '' Look 
at that! Ah, now, look at that! What did 



Corot 



277 



I tell you ! You thought I never could catch 
it — Oho, aha, ohe, tralala, la, la, la, loo!" 

This willingness to let the unrestrained 
spirit romp was strong in Corot — and it 
is to be recommended. How much finer 
it is to go out into the woods and lift up 
your voice in song, and be a child, than to 
fight inclination and waste good God-given 
energy endeavouring to be proper — ^what- 
ever that may be! 

Corot never wrote anything finer than 
that letter to his friend Graham, and, like 
all really good things, it was written with 
no weather eye on futurity. The thought 
that it might be published never came to 
him, for if it had, he would probably have 
produced something not worth publishing. 
It was scribbled off with a pencil, hot from 
the heart, out of doors, immediately after 
having done a particularly choice bit of 
work. Every one who writes of Corot 
quotes this letter, and there are various 
translations of it. It cannot be translated 
literally, because the language in which 
it was written is effervescent, flashing, in 
motion like a cascade. It defies all gram- 
mar, forgets rhetoric, and simply makes you 
feel. I have just as good a right to trans- 



Xettec to 

Stevens 

vabam 



278 



Xtttle 5otttneps 



letter to 
Stevens 
Gcabam 



late this letter as anybody, and while I will 
add nothing that the spirit of the text 
does not justify, I will omit a few things, 
and follow my own taste in the matter of 
paragraphing. 

So here is the letter: 

A landscapist's day is divine. You, are 
jealous of the moments, and so are up at 
three o'clock — long before the sun sets you 
the example. 

You go out into the silence and sit under 
a tree, and watch and watch and wait and 
wait. 

It is very dark — the nightingales have gone 
to bed, all the mysterious noises of night's 
forenoon have ceased — the crickets are asleep, 
the tree-toad has found a nest — even the 
stars have slunk away. 

You wait. 

There is scarcely anything to be seen at 
first — only dark, spectral shapes that stand 
out against the blue-black of the sky. 

Nature is behind a veil, upon which some 
masses of form are vaguely sketched. The 
damp, sweet smell of the incense of spring 
is in the air — you breathe deeply — a sense 
of religious emotion sweeps over you — you 
close your eyes an instant in a prayer of 
thankfulness that you are alive. 



You do not keep your eyes closed long 
though — something is about to happen — you 
grow expectant, you wait, you listen, you 
hold your breath — everything trembles with a 
delight that is half pain, under the invigorat- 
ing caress of the coming day. 

You breathe fast, and then you hold your 
breath and listen. 

You wait. 

You peer. 

You listen. 

Bing! A ray of pale, yellow light shoots 
from horizon to zenith. The dawn does 
not come all at once, it steals upon you by 
leaps and subtle strides like deploying 
pickets. 

Bing! Another ray, and the first one is 
suffusing itself across an arc of the purple 
sky. 

Bing, Bing! The east is all aglow. 

The little flowers at your feet are waking in 
joyful mood. 

The chirrup of birds is heard. How they 
do sing! When did they begin? You forgot 
them in watching the rays of light. 

The flowers are each one drinking its drop 
of quivering dew. 

The leaves feel the cool breath of the morn- 
ing, and are moving to and fro in the invigor- 
ating air. 



better to 
Stevens 
Ocabam 



28o 



Xittle Soutneps 



Xetter to 
Stevens 
(3rabam 



The flowers are saying their morning prayers, 
accompanied by the matin song of the birds. 

Amoretti, with gauzy wings, are perching 
on the tall blades of grass that spring from 
the meadows, and the tall stems of the poppies 
and field lilies are swaying, swaying, swaying 
a minuet motion fanned by the kiss of the 
gentle breeze. Oh, how beautiful it all is! 
How good God is to send it ! How beautiful ! 
how beautiful! 

But merciful easel ! I am forgetting to paint 
— this exhibition is for me, and I'm failing 
to improve it. My palette — the brushes — 
there! there! 

We can see nothing — but you feel the land- 
scape is there — quick now, a cottage away 
over yonder is pushing out of the white 
mist. To thine easel — go ! 

Oh! it's all there behind the translucent 
gauze — 1 know it — I know it — I know it! 

Now the white mist lifts like a curtain — ■ 
it rises and rises and rises. 

Bam! the sun is risen. 

I see the river, like a stretch of silver 
ribbon; it weaves in and out and stretches 
away, away, away. 

The masses of the trees, of the meads, the 
meadows — the poplars, the leaning willows, 
are all revealed by the mist that is reeling 
and rolling up the hillside. 



Corot 



i8i 



I paint and I paint and I paint, and I sing 
and I sing and I paint! 

We can see now all we guessed before. 
Bam, bam! The sun is just above the horizon 
— a great golden ball held in place by spider 
threads. 

I can see the lace made by the spiders — 
it sparkles with the drops of dew. 

I paint and I paint and I sing and I 
paint. 

Oh, would I were Joshua — I would com- 
mand the sun to stand still. 

And if it should, I would be sorry, for 
nothing ever did stand still, except a bad 
picture. A good picture is full of motion. 
Clouds that stand still are not clouds — 
motion, activity, life, yes, life is what we 
want — life ! 

Bam! A peasant comes out of the cottage 
and is coming to the meadow. 

Ding, ding, ding! There comes a flock of 
sheep led by a bell-wether. Wait there 
a minute, please, sheepy-sheepy, and a great 
man will paint you. 

All right then, don't wait. I did n't want 
to paint you anyway. 

Bam! All things break into glistening — ten 
thousand diamonds strew the grasses, the 
liHes, and the tall stalks of swaying poppies. 
Diamonds on the cobwebs — diamonds every- 



%cttct to 

Stevens 

©tabam 



282 



Xtttle Sourness 



letter to 
Stevens 
(Brabam 



where. Glistening, dancing, glittering light 
— floods of light — pale, wistful, loving light: 
caressing, blushing, touching, beseeching, 
grateful light. 

Oh, adorable light! The light of morning 
that comes to show you things — and I paint 
and I paint and I paint. 

Oh, the beautiful red cow that plunges into 
the wet grass up to her dew-laps! I will paint 
her. There she is — there! 

Here is Simon, my peasant friend, looking 
over my shoulder. 

"Oho, Simon, what do you think of 
that?" 

"Very fine," says Simon, "very fine!" 

"You see what it is meant for, Simon?" 

"Me? Yes, I should say I do — it is a big 
red rock." 

"No, no, Simon, that is a cow." 

"Well, how should I know unless you 
tell me," answers Simon. 

I paint and I paint and I paint. 

Boom! Boom! The sun is getting clear 
above the treetops. It is growing hot. 

The flowers droop. 

The birds are silent. 

We can see too much now — there is nothing 
in it. Art is a matter of soul. Things you 
see and know all about are not worth painting 
— only the intangible is splendid. 



Corot 



2^3 



Let 's go home. We will dine, and sleep, 
and dream. 

That 's it — I '11 dream of the morning 
that would not tarry — I '11 dream my picture 
out, and then I '11 get up and smoke, and 
complete it, possibly — who knows! 

Let 's go home. 



letter to 
Stevens 
Grabam 



Bam! Bam! It is evening now — the sun 

is setting. 

I did n't know the close of the day could 
be so beautiful — I thought the morning was 
the time. 

But it is not just right — the sun is setting 
in an explosion of yellow, of orange, of rouge- 
feu, of cherry, of purple. 

Ah! it is pretentious, vulgar. Nature 
wants me to admire her — I will not. I '11 
wait — the sylphs of the evening will soon 
come and sprinkle the thirsty flowers with 
their vapours of dew. 

I like sylphs — I '11 wait. 

Boom! The sun sinks out of sight, and 
leaves behind a tinge of purple, of modest 
grey touched with topaz — ah! that is better. 

I paint and I paint and I paint. 

Oh, Good Lord, how beautiful it is — how 
beautiful ! 

The sun has disappeared and left behind 



284 



Xtttle Soutnei^s 



better to 
Stevens 



a soft, luminous, gauzy tint of lemon — 
lemons half ripe. The light melts and blends 
into the blue of the night. 
. How beautiful! I must catch that — even 
now it fades — but I have it: tones of deepen- 
ing green, pallid turquoise, infinitely fine, 
delicate, fluid, and ethereal. 

Night draws on. The dark waters reflect 
the mysteries of the sky — the landscape 
fades, vanishes, disappears — ^we cannot see 
it now, we only feel it is there. 

But that is enough for one day — Nature 
is going to sleep, and so will we, soon. Let 
us just sit silent a space and enjoy the stillness. 

The rising breezes are sighing through the 
foliage, and the birds, choristers of the flowers, 
are singing their vesper songs — calling, some 
of them, plaintively for their lost mates. 

Bing! A star pricks its portrait in the pond. 

All around now is darkness and gloom — • 
the crickets have taken up the song where 
the birds left off. 

The little lake is sparkling, a regular ant- 
heap of twinkling stars. 

Reflected things are best — the waters are 
only to reflect the sky — Nature's looking- 
glass. The sun has gone to rest; the day is 
done. But the sun of Art has arisen, and 
my picture is complete. Let us go home. 



VI 



285 



THE Barbizon School — ^which, by the 
way, was never a school, and if it 
exists now is not at Barbizon — ^was made 
up of five men: Corot, Millet, Rousseau, 
Diaz, and Daubigny. 

Corot saw it first — this straggling little 
village of Barbizon, nestling there at the 
foot of the Forest of Fontainebleau, thirty- 
five miles southeast of Paris. This was 
about the year 1830. There was no market 
then for Corot's wares, and the artist 
would have doubted the sanity of any one 
who might have wanted to buy. His in- 
come was one dollar a day — and this was 
enough. If he wanted to go anywhere, 
he walked ; and so he walked into Barbizon 
one day, his pack on his back, and found 
there a little inn, so quaint and simple 
that he stayed two days. 



Scbool 



286 



3Little 5ourne^0 



Corot 

at 

^arWjon 



The landlord quite liked the big, jolly 
stranger. Hanging upon his painting out- 
fit was a mandolin, a harmonica, a guitar, 
and two or three other small musical 
instruments of nondescript pedigree. The 
painter made music for the village, and on 
invitation painted a sketch on the tavern 
wall to pay for his board. And this sketch 
is there even to this day, and is as plain to 
be seen as the splash of ink on the wall at 
Eisenach where Martin Luther threw the 
ink bottle at the devil. 

When Corot went back to Paris he showed 
sketches of Barbizon and told of the little 
snuggery, where life was so simple and 
cheap. Soon Rousseau and Diaz went down 
to Barbizon for a week's stay — Plater came 
Daubigny. In the course of a few years 
Barbizon grew to be a kind of excursion 
point for artistic and ragged Bohemians, 
most of whom have done their work, and 
their little life is now rounded with a 
sleep. 

Rousseau, Diaz, and Daubigny, all 
younger men than Corot, made comfortable 
fortunes long before Corot got the speaker's 
eye; and when at last recognition came 
to him, not the least of their claim to 



Cotot 



287 



greatness was that they had worked with 
him. 

It was not- until 1849 '^^^^ Jean Francois 
Millet with his goodly brood was let down 
from the stage at Barbizon to work there 
for twenty-six years, and give himself 
and the place immortality. For when we 
talk of the Barbizon School, we have the 
low tones of The Faggot Gatherer in mind 
— the browns, the russets, and the deep, 
dark yellows fading off into the gloom 
of dying day. 

And only a few miles away, clinging to 
the hillside, is By, where lived Rosa Bon- 
heur — too busy to care for Barbizon, or 
if she thought of the Barbizon School 
it was with a fine contempt, which the 
''School" returned with usurious interest. 

At the Barbizon Inn the Bohemians 
used to sing songs about the Bonheur 
breeches, and The Lady who keeps a 
Zoo. The offence of Rosa Bonheur was 
that she minded her own business, 
and sold the Horse Fair for more 
money than the entire Barbizon School 
had ever earned in its lifetime. Only 
two names loom large out of Barbizon. 
Daubigny, Diaz, and Rousseau are 



Iftosa 
ffionbeuc 



288 



Xtttle Journeps 



Corot anb 
ilDUlet 



great painters, and they each have disciples 
and imitators who paint as well as they; 
but Corot and Millet stand out separate 
and alone, incomprehensible and un- 
rivalled. 

And yet were ever two artists more 
unlike! Just compare The Dancing 
Sylphs and The Gleaners. The theme 
of all Millet's work is, " Man goeth forth 
to his labours unto the evening." Toil, 
hardship, heroic endurance, plodding 
monotony, burdens greivous to be borne — 
these things cover the canvases of Millet. 
All of his deep sincerity, his abiding melan- 
choly, his rugged nobility, are there; for 
every man who works in freedom simply 
reproduces himself. That is what true 
work is — self-expression, self -revelation. 
The style of Millet is so strongly marked, 
so deeply etched, that no man dare imitate 
it. It is covered by a perpetual copyright, 
signed and sealed with the life's blood of 
the artist. Then comes Corot the joyous, 
Corot the careless, Corot who had no 
troubles, no sorrows, no grievances, and 
not an enemy that he recognised as such. 
He even loved Rosa Bonheur, or would, 
he once said, "If she would only chain 



Cotot 



289 



up her dog, and wear woman's clothes!'* 
Corot, singing at his work, unless he was 
smoking, and if he was smoking, removing 
his pipe only to lift up his voice in song: 
Corot, painting and singing — "Ah ha — 
tra la la. Now I 11 paint a little boy — 
oho, oho, tra lala la loo — ^lal loo — oho — 
what a nice little boy — and here comes 
a cow; hold that, bossy — in you go for 
art's dear sake — tra la la la, la loo!" 

Look at Corot closely and listen, and 
you can always hear the echo of the pipes 
o' Pan. Lovers sit on the grassy banks, 
children roll among the leaves, sylphs 
dance in every open, and out from be- 
tween the branches lightly steps Orpheus, 
harp in hand, to greet the morn. Never 
is there a shadow of care in a Corot — all is 
mellow with love, ripe with the rich gift 
of life, full of prayer and praise just for 
the rapture of drinking in the day — grateful 
for calm, sweet rest and eventide. 

Corot, eighteen years the senior of 
Millet, was the first to welcome the whipped- 
out artist to Barbizon. With him Corot 
divided his scanty store; he sang and 
played his guitar at the Millet hearthstone 
when he had nothing but himself to give. 



iScbo of 
tbe ipipes 
0' |)an 



290 



Xittle 5ourneps 



<Iorot*6 
1kfn&nes0 
to billet 



and when, in 1875, Millet felt the chill 
night settling down upon him, and the 
fear that want would come to his loved 
ones haunted his dreams, Corot assured 
him by settling upon the family the sum 
of one thousand francs a year, until the 
youngest child should become of age, and 
during Madame Millet's life. 

So died Jean Francois Millet. In 1889, 
The Angelus was bought by an Ameri- 
can syndicate for five hundred and eighty 
thousand francs. In 1890, it was bought 
back by agents of the French Govern- 
ment for seven hundred and fifty thousand 
francs, and now has found a final resting 
place in the Louvre. Within a few 
months after the death of Millet, Corot, 
too, passed away. 



VII 



291 



COROT is a remarkable example of a 
soul ripening slowly. His skill was 
not at its highest until he was seventy-one 
years of age. He then had eight years 
of life and work left, and he continued 
even to the end. In his art there was 
no decline. 

It cannot be said that he received due 
recognition until he was approaching his 
seventy-fifth year, for it was then, for 
the first time, that the world of buyers 
besieged his door. The few who had 
bought before were usually friends who 
had purchased with the amiable idea of 
helping a worthy man. During the last 
few years of Corot's life, his income was 
over fifty thousand francs a year — "more 
than I received for pictures during my 
whole career," he once said. And then 



Xa0t Iffears 



292 



Xittle Journei^s 



:fBesU%ovel 
^an in 



he shed tears at parting with the treasures 
that had been for so long his close com- 
panions. "You see, I am a collector," 
he used to say, "but being poor, I have 
to paint all my pictures myself — ^they are 
not for sale." And probably he would 
have kept his collection unbroken were 
it not that he wanted the money so much 
to give away. 

When he passed out in 1875, he was 
the best-loved man in Paris. Five thou- 
sand art students wore crepe on their arms 
for a year in memory of " Papa Corot," 
a man who did his work joyously, lived 
long, and to the end carried in his heart 
the perfume of the morning, and the 
beneficent beauty of the sunrise. 



CORREGGIO 



293 



295 



What genius disclosed all these wonders to thee? 
All the fair images in the world seem to have sprung 
forward to meet thee, and to throw themselves 
lovingly into thy arms. How joyous was the 
gathering when smiling angels held thy palette 
and sublime spirits stood before thy inward vision 
in all their splendour as models! Let no one think 
he has seen Italy, let no one think he has learned the 
lofty secrets of art, until he has seen thee and thy 
Cathedral at Parma, O Correggio! 



jfaic 
tlmages 



LUDWIG TiECK. 



297 



THERE is no moment that comes to 
mortals so charged with peace and 
precious joy as the moment of reconcilia- 
tion. If the angels ever attend us, they 
are surely present then. The ineffable 
joy of forgiving and being forgiven forms 
an ecstasy that well might arouse the 
envy of the gods. 

How well the theologians have under- 
stood this! Very often, no doubt, their 
psychology has been more experimental 
than scientific — but it is effective. They 
plunge the candidate into a gloom of 
horror, guilt, and despair; and then when 
he is thoroughly prostrated — submerged 
— they lift him out and up into the light, 
and the thought of reconciliation possesses 
him. 

He has made peace with his Maker! 



IReconcilfs 
ation 



Xtttle Journeys 



*cbe That is to say, he has made peace with 



2)ai2* 



himself — peace with his fellow-men. He 
is intent on reparation; he wishes to for- 
give every one. He sings, he dances, he 
leaps into the air, clasps his hands in joy, 
embraces those nearest him, and calls 
aloud, " Glory to God! Glory to God!" 

It is the moment of reconciliation. 

Yet there is a finer temperament than 
that of the *'new convert," and his mo- 
ment of joy is one of silence — sacred 
silence. 

In the Parma Gallery is the painting 
entitled The Day, the masterpiece of 
Correggio. The picture shows the Ma- 
donna, St. Jerome, St. John, and the 
Christ-child. A second woman is shown 
in the picture. This woman is usually 
referred to as Magdalen, and to me she 
is the most important figure in it. She 
may lack a little of the ethereal beauty 
of the Madonna, but the humanness of 
the pose, the tenderness and subtle joy 
of it, shows you that she is a woman in- 
deed, a woman the artist loved — he wanted 
to paint her picture, and St. Jerome, 
the Madonna, and the Christ-child are only 
excuses. 



COVtCQQiO 



299 



John Ruskin, good and great, but with 
prejudices that matched his genius, de- 
clared this picture "immoral in its sug- 
gestiveness." It is so splendidly, superbly- 
human that he could not appreciate it. 
Yet this figure of which he complains is 
draped from neck to ankle — the bare feet 
are shown — but the attitude is sweetly, 
tenderly modest. The woman, half re- 
clining, leans her face over and allows 
her cheek, very gently, to press against 
the Christ-child. Absolute relaxation is 
shown, perfect trust — no tension, no anxi- 
ety, no passion — only a stillness and rest, 
a gratitude and subdued peace that are 
beyond speech. The woman is so happy 
that she cannot speak, so full of joy that 
she dare not express it, and a barely 
perceptible tear-stain upon her cheek 
suggests that this peace has not always 
been. She has found her Saviour — she is 
His and He is hers. It is the moment 
of reconciliation. 






300 



II 



H JpecKng 
of SafetB 



THE Renaissance came as a great burst 
of divine light, after a thousand years 
of lurid night. The iron heel of Imperial 
Rome had ground individuality into the 
mire. Unceasing war, endless bloodshed, 
slavery without limit, and rampant bestial- 
ity had stalked back and forth across Eu- 
rope. Insanity, uncertainty, drudgery, 
and crouching want were the portion of 
the many. In such soil neither art, lit- 
erature, nor religion can prosper. 

But now the Church had turned her 
face against disorder, and was offering 
her rewards for excellence and beauty. 
Gradually there came a feeling of safety — 
something approaching security. Through- 
out Italy, beautiful, stately churches were 
being built; in all the little principalities, 
palaces were erected : architecture became 



Correo^to 301 



a science. The churches and palaces were 5obous 



decorated with pictures, statues filled the 
niches, memorials to great ones gone were 
erected in the public squares. 

It was a time of reconciliation — ^peace 
was more popular than war — and where 
men did go to war, they always apologised 
for it by explaining that they fought 
simply to obtain peace. 

Michael Angelo, Raphael, Leonardo, and 
Botticelli were doing their splendid work 
— ^work palpitating with the joy of life, 
and yet upon it was the tinge of sorrow, 
the scars of battles fought, the tear-stains 
that told of troubles gone. Yet the general 
atmosphere was one of blitheness, joyous 
life, and gratitude for existence. Men 
seemed to have gotten rid of a great 
burden; they stood erect, they breathed 
deeply, and , looking around them, were 
surprised to perceive that life was really 
beautiful, and God was good. 

In such an attitude of mind they reached 
out friendly hands toward each other. 
Poets sang; musicians played; painters 
painted, and sculptors carved. Universities 
sprang into being — schools were every- 
where. The gloom was dispelled even from 



%ifc 



302 



Xtttle Joutneigs 



m 

^Beautiful 
TKnorld 



the monasteries. The monks ate three 
meals a day — sometimes four or five. 
They went a- visiting. Wine flowed, and 
music was heard where music was never 
heard before. Instead of the solemn proces- 
sional, there were Bamabee steps seen on 
stone floors — steps that looked like eccle- 
siastical fandango. The rope girdles were 
let out a trifle, flagellations ceased, vigils re- 
laxed, and in many instances the coarse 
horse-hair garments were replaced with 
soft, flowing robes, tied with red, blue, or 
yellow sashes of silk and satin. 

The earth was beautiful, men were 
kind, women were gracious, God was good, 
and his children should be happy — these 
were the things preached from many 
pulpits. 

Paganism had been grafted upon Christ- 
ianity, and the only branches that were 
bearing fruit were the pagan branches. 
The old spirit of Greece had come back, 
romping, laughing in the glorious Italian 
sunshine. Everything had an Attic flavour. 
The sky was never so blue, the yellow 
moonlight never before cast such soft, 
mysterious shadows, the air was full of 
perfume, and you had but to stop and 



Correggio 



3^3 



listen any time and anywhere to hear the 
pipes o' Pan. 

When time turned the comer into the 
sixteenth century, the tide of the Renais- 
sance was at its full. The mortification 
of the monasteries, as we have seen, had 
given place to a spirit of feasting — ^good 
things were for use. The thought was 
contagious, and, although the Paulian idea 
of women keeping silence in all due sub- 
jection has ever been a favourite one with 
masculine man, yet the fact is that in the 
matter of manners and morals men and 
women are never far apart — there is a 
constant transference of thought, feeling, 
and action. I do not know why this is. 
I merely know that it is so. Some have 
counted sex a mistake on the part of God ; 
but the safer view is for us to conclude 
that whatever is, is good; some things 
are better than others, but all are good. 
This is what they thought during the 
Renaissance. So convent life lost its 
austerity, and as the Council of Trent had 
not yet issued its stem orders command- 
ing asceticism, prayers were occasionally 
offered accompanied by syncopated music. 

The blooming daughters of great houses 



B Spirit 

of 
^Feastinfl 



304 



Xtttle Journei^s 



Ubc 

** Convent 

Ibabft ♦* 



were consigned to convents on slight 
excuse. **To a nunnery go, and quickly, 
too," was an order often given and 
followed with alacrity. Married women, 
worn with many cares, often went into 
''retreat"; girls tired of society's whirl; 
those wrung with hopeless passion; un- 
manageable wives; all who had fed on the 
husks of satiety; those who had incurred 
the displeasure of parents or kinsmen, or 
were deserted, forlorn, and undone, all 
these found rest in the convents — pro- 
vided they had the money to pay„ Those 
without money or influential friends simply 
laboured as servants and scullions. Rich 
women contracted the ''Convent Habit"; 
this was about the same thing as our 
present dalliance known as the " Sanitarium 
Bacillus" — ^which only those with a goodly 
bank balance can afford to indulge. The 
poor, then as now, had a sufficient pan- 
acea for trouble: they kept their nerves 
beneath their clothes by work — ^they had 
to grin and bear it, at least they had to 
bear it. 

In almost every town that lined the 
great Emilian Highway, that splendid 
road laid out by the Consul Marcus 



COVtCQQiO 305 



Emilius 83, b. c, from Rimini and ^i*« <« 
Piacenza, there were convents of high and 
low degree — some fashionable, some plain, 
and some veritable palaces, rich in art and 
full of all that makes for luxury. These 
convents were at once a prison, a hospital, 
a sanitarium, a workshop, a school, and 
a religious retreat. The day was divided 
up into periods for devotion, work, and 
recreation, and the discipline was on a 
sliding scale matching the mood of the 
abbess in charge, all modified by the 
prevailing spirit of the inmates. 

But the thought that life was good was 
rife, and this thought got over every 
convent wall, stole through the garden 
walks, crept softly in at every grated 
window, and filled each suppliant's cell 
with its sweet, amorous presence. 

Yes, life is good, God is good! He wants 
His children to be happy! The white 
clouds chase each other across the blue 
dome of heaven, the birds in the azaleas 
and in the orange trees twitter, build 
nests, and play hide-and-seek the live- 
long day. The balmy air is flavoured 
with health, healing, and good cheer. 

Life in the convent had many advan 



3o6 



Xlttle Sourness 



%ifc in a 
(Eonvent 



tages and benefits. Women were taught 
to sew and work miracles with the needle; 
they made lace, illumined missals, wove 
tapestries, tended the flowers, listened 
to lectures, read from books, and spent 
certain hours in silence and meditation. 
To a great degree the convents were 
founded on science and a just knowledge 
of human needs. There were "orders" 
and degrees that fitted every tempera- 
ment and condition. 

But the humble garb of a nun never yet 
changed the woman's heart that beats 
beneath — she is a woman still. 

Every night could be heard the tinkle 
of guitars beneath bedroom windows, notes 
were passed up on forked sticks, and 
missives freshly kissed by warm lips were 
dropped down through lattices; secret 
messengers came with letters, and now 
and again rope ladders were in demand; 
while not far away there were always 
priests who did a thriving business in the 
specialty of Gretna Green. 

Every sanitarium, every great hotel, 
every public institution — every family, 
I was going to say — ^has two lives; the 
placid moving life that the public knows. 



COVVCQQiO 



307 



and the throbbing, pulsing Hfe of plot 
and counter-plot — the life that goes on 
beneath the surface. It is the same with 
the human body — how bright and calm 
the eye, how smooth and soft the skin, 
how warm and beautiful this rose-mesh 
of flesh! But beneath there is a seething 
struggle between the forces of life and the 
disintegration — and eventually nothing 
succeeds but failure. 

Every convent was a hotbed of gos- 
sip, jealousy, hate, and seething strife, 
and now and again there came a min- 
iature explosion that the outside world 
heard and translated with emendations 
to suit. 

Rivalry was rife, competition lined the 
corridors, and discontent sat glum or 
rustled uneasily in each stone cell. Some 
of the inmates brought pictures, busts, 
and ornaments to embellish their rooms. 
Friends from the outside world sent 
presents; the cavalier who played the 
guitar beneath the window varied his 
entertainment by gifts; flowers filled the 
beautiful vases, and these blossoms were 
replaced ere they withered so as to show 
that true love never dies. 



Xife in a 
Convent 



3o8 



%ittlc Jotttne^s 



%iU in a 
Convent 



Monks from neighbouring monasteries 
preached sermons or gave lectures; skilled 
musicians came, and sang or played the or- 
gan ; noblemen visited the place to examine 
the works of art, or to see fair maids on 
business, or consult the abbess on mat- 
ters spiritual. Often these visitors were 
pressed to remain, and then receptions 
were held and modest fetes given and ban- 
quets tendered. At intervals there were 
fairs when the products made by the mar- 
riage of hand and brain of the fair work- 
ers, were exhibited and sold. 

So life, though in a convent, was life, 
and even death and disintegration are 
forms of life — and all life is good. 



Ill 



309 



THE Donna Giovanni Piacenza was ap- 
pointed Abbess of San Paola Convent, 
Parma, in 1507. The Abbess was the 
daughter of the nobleman Marco. Donna 
Giovanni was a woman of marked mental 
ability; she had a genius for management; 
a wise sense of diplomacy; and withal was 
an artist by nature and instinct. 

The Convent of San Paola was one of 
the richest and most popular in the 
Emilia. 

The man to whose influence the Abbess 
owed most in securing her the appoint- 
ment was the Cavaliere Scipione, a lawyer 
and a man of affairs, married to the 
sister of the Abbess. 

As a token of esteem and by way of 
sisterly reciprocity, the Abbess soon af- 
ter her appointment called the Cavaliere 



Bbbese of 

San paola 

Convent 



3ro 



Xittle Journeys 



Uwo 
3f actions 



Scipione to the position of Legal Adviser 
and Custodian of the Convent Funds. 
Before this the business of the institution 
had been looked after by the Garimberti 
family; and the Garimberti now refusing 
to relinquish their office, Scipione took 
affairs into his own hands and ran the 
chief offender through with his sword. 
Scipione found refuge in the Convent, and 
the officers of the law hammered on the 
gates for admission, and hammered in vain. 

Parma was split into two factions — 
those who favoured the Abbess Giovanni 
and those who opposed her. 

Once at midnight the gates were broken 
down and the place searched, for hiding 
cavaliers, by the Governor of the city 
and his cohorts, to the great consterna- 
tion of the nuns. 

But time is the great healer, and hate 
left alone is short-lived, and dies a natu- 
ral death. The Abbess was wise in her 
management, and, with the advice and 
assistance of Scipione, the place prospered. 
Visitors came, delegations passed that way, 
great prelates gave their blessing, and 
the citizens of Parma became proud of 
the Convent of San Paola. 



CortegGto 



311 



Some of the nuns were rich in their own 
right, and some of these had their rooms 
frescoed by local artists to suit their 
fancies. Strictly religious pictures were 
not much in vogue with the inmates — ^they 
got their religion at the chapel. Mytho- 
logy and the things that symbolised life 
and love were the fashion. On one door 
was a flaming heart pierced by an arrow, 
and beneath in Italian was the motto, 
''Love while you may." Other mottoes 
about the place were, " Eat, drink, and 
be merry " ; '* Laugh and be glad." These 
mottoes revealed the prevailing spirit. 

Some of the staid citizens of Parma 
sent petitions to Pope Julius demanding 
that the decree of strict cloistration be 
enforced against the nuns. But Julius 
sort of revelled in life himself, and the 
art spirit shown by the Abbess was quite 
to his liking. Later, Leo X. was im- 
portuned to curb the festive spirit of 
the place, but he shelved the matter by 
sending along a fatherly letter of advice 
and counsel. About this time we find 
the Abbess and her legal adviser planning 
a scheme of decoration that should win 
the admiration or envy — or both — of 



]petitions 
totbe 
Ipope 



312 



Xtttle Journei^s 



Bntonfo 
Ullcgvi 



every art lover in the Emilia. The young 
man Antonio Allegri, from Correggio, 
should do the work. They had met him 
at the house of Veronica Gambara, and 
they knew that any one Veronica recom- 
mended must be worthy of confidence. 
Veronica said the youth had sublime tal- 
ent — ^it must be so. His name, Allegri, 
meant joy, and his work was charged 
with all his name implied. He was sent 
for, and he came — walking the forty miles 
from Correggio to Parma with his paint- 
er's kit on his back. 

He was short of stature, smooth faced, 
and looked like a good-natured country 
bumpkin in his peasant garb, all decorated 
by dust. He was modest, half shy, and 
the nuns who peered at him from behind 
the arras as he walked down the hallway 
of the convent caused his countenance 
to run the chromatic scale. 

He was sorry he came, and if he could 
have gotten away without disgrace he 
surely would have started straight back 
for Correggio. He had never been so far 
away from home before, and although 
he did not know it he was never to get 
further away in his life. Venice and 



Correggto 



313 



Titian were to the east a hundred miles; 
Milan and Leonardo were to the north 
about the same distance; Florence and 
Michael Angelo were south ninety miles; 
Rome and Raphael were one hundred 
and sixty miles beyond; and he was never 
to see any of these. But the boy shed 
no tears over that; it is quite possible 
that he never heard of any of these names 
just mentioned, save that of Leonardo — 
none loomed large as they do now — 
there were painters everywhere, just as 
Boston Common is full of poets. Veronica 
Gambara had told him of Leonardo — we 
know that — and described in glowing words 
and with an enthusiasm that was con- 
tagious how the chief marks of Leonardo's 
wonderful style lay in the way he painted 
hands, hair, and eyes. The Leonardo hands 
were delicate, long of finger, expressive 
and full of life; the hair was wavy, fluffy, 
sun-glossed, and it seemed as if you 
could stroke it and it would give off 
magnetic sparks; but Leonardo's best 
feature was the eye — the large, full-orbed 
eye that looked down so that .you really 
never saw the eye, only the lid, and the 
long lashes upon which a tear might 



micQvi 

Xeonar&o 



314 



Xxttle Journeys 



HIIegri*s 
Specialty 



glisten. Antonio listened to Veronica with 
open mouth, drinking it all in, and then 
he sighed and said, "I am a painter, too." 
He set to work, fired with the thought of 
doing what Leonardo had done — hands, 
hair, and eyes — ^beautiful hands, beautiful 
hair, beautiful eyes! Then these things 
he worked upon, only he never placed 
the glistening tear upon the long lash, 
because there were no tears upon his own 
lashes. He had never known sorrow, 
trouble, disappointment, or defeat. 

The specialty of AUegri was putti — 
tumbling, tumultuous, tricksy putti. These 
cherubs symboled the joy of life, and 
when Allegri wished to sign his name, 
he drew a cherub. He had come up out 
of a family that had little and expected 
nothing. Then he needed so little — his 
wants were few. If he went away from 
home on little journeys, he stopped with 
peasants along the way and made merry 
with the children and outlined a chubby 
cherub on the cottage wall, to the delight 
of everybody; and in the morning was 
sent on his. way with blessings, God-speeds, 
and urgent invitations to come again. 
Smiles and good cheer, a little music and 



(LOVVCQQiO 315 



the ability to do things, when accompanied Hbbess 
by a becoming modesty, are current coin j^aintcc 
the round world over. Tired earth is 
quite willing to pay for being amused. 

The Abbess Giovanni showed Antonio 
about the convent, and he saw what had 
already been done. He was appreciative, 
but talked little. The Abbess liked the 
youth. He suggested possibilities — he 
might really become the great painter that 
the enthusiastic Veronica prophesied he 
would one day be. 

The Abbess gave up one of her own 
rooms for his accommodation, brought him 
water for a bath, and at supper set him at 
the table at her own right hand. 

"And about the frescoes?" asked the 
Abbess. 

''Yes, the frescoes — your room shall be 
done first. I will begin the work in the 
morning," replied Antonio. 

The confidence of the youth made the 
Abbess smile. 



3i6 



IV 



B Sbrfne 
for Brts 

lovers 



MANY of our finest flowers are merely 
transplanted weeds. Transplantation 
often works wonders in men. When fate lift- 
ed Antonio Allegri out of the little village of 
Correggio and set him down in the city of 
Parma, a great change came over him. 
The wealth, beauty, and freer atmosphere 
of the place caused the tendrils of his 
imagination to reach out into a richer soil 
and the result was such blossoms of beauty, 
so gorgeous in form and colour, that men 
have not yet ceased to marvel. 

The Convent of San Paola is a sacred 
shrine for art-lovers — ^they come from 
the round world over, just to see the ceiling 
in that one room — ^the room of the Abbess 
Giovanni where Antonio Allegri, the young 
man from Correggio, first placed his 
scaffolds in Parma. 



317 



THE village of Correggio is quite off 
the beaten track of travel. You will 
have to look five times on the map before 
you can find it. It is only a village now, 
and in the year 1494, when Antonio 
Allegri was bom, and Christoforo Colombo, 
the Genoese, w^as discovering continents, 
it was little better than a hamlet. It had 
a church, a convent, a palace where dwelt 
the Corregghesi — the lords of Correggio, 
— and stretching around the square, where 
stood the church, were long, low, stone 
cottages, whitewashed, with trellises of 
climbing flowers. Back of these cottages 
w^ere little gardens where the peas, lentils, 
leeks, and parsley laughed a harvest. 
There were flowers, flowers everywhere — 
none were too poor to have flowers. 
Flowers are a strictly sex product and 



IDfllage of 

Correggio 



3i8 Xittle 5ournei?0 



untbe symbol the joy of life; and where there 
^lacf ^^^ ^^ flowers, there is little love. Lov- 
ers give flowers — and they are enough ; 
and if you do not love flowers, they will 
refuse to blossom for you. " If I had but 
two loaves of bread, I 'd sell one of them 
and buy white hyacinths to feed my soul" 
— ^that was said by a man who loved this 
world, no less than the next. Do not 
defame this world — she is the mother 
that feeds you, and she supplies you not 
only bread, but white hyacinths to feed 
your soul. 

On market day in every Italian town 
four hundred years ago, just as now, the 
country women brought big baskets of 
vegetables and also baskets of flowers. And 
you will see in those markets, if you ob- 
serve, that the people who buy vegetables 
usually buy sprays of mignonette, bunches 
of violets, roses upon which the dew yet 
sparkles, or white hyacinths. Loaves alone 
are not quite enough — ^we want also the 
bread of life, and the bread of life is love, 
and did n't I say that flowers symbol 
love? 

And I have noted this, in those old 
markets: often the pile of flowers that 



COVVCQQiO 



319 



repose by the basket of fruit or vegetables 
are to give away to the customers as tokens 
of good -will. I remember visiting the 
market at Parma one day and buying 
some cherries, and the old woman who 
took my money picked up a little spray 
of hyacinth and pinned it to my coat, 
quite as a matter of course. The next 
day I went back and bought figs and got 
a big moss rose as a premium. The 
peculiar brand of Italian that I spoke was 
unintelligible to the old woman, and I 
am very sure that I could not understand 
her, yet the white hyacinths and the moss 
rose made all plain. That was five years 
ago, but if I should go back to Parma 
to-morrow, I would go straight to the 
Market Place, and I know that my old 
friend would reach out a brown calloused 
hand to give me welcome, and the choicest 
rose in her basket would be mine — ^the 
heart understands. 

That spirit of mutual giving was the 
true spirit of the Renaissance, and in the 
forepart of the sixteenth century it was 
at its fullest flower. Men gave the beauty 
that was in them, and Vasari tells how 
at Correggio the peasants, who had nothing 



Spirit of 
Mutual 
^ Giving 



320 



Xittle Sourness 



IDeconfca 
(Bambatra 



else to give, each Sunday brought flowers 
and piled them high at the feet of the 
Virgin. 

There were painters and sculptors at 
the village of Correggio then; great men 
in their day, no doubt, but lost now to us 
in the maze of years. And there was, too, 
a little court of beauty and learning, pre- 
sided over by Veronica Gambara. Veron- 
ica was a lover of art and literature, and 
a poet of no mean quality. Antonio 
Allegri, son of the village baker, was a 
welcome visitor at her house. The boy 
used to help the decorators at the church, 
and had picked up a little knowledge of 
art. That is all you want — an entrance 
into the kingdom of art, and all these 
things shall be added unto you. Veronica 
appreciated the boy because he appreciated 
art, and, great lady that she was, she ap- 
preciated him because he appreciated 
her. There is nothing that so warms the 
cockles of a teacher's heart as appreciation 
in a pupil. The intellect of the village 
swung around Veronica Gambara. Visitors 
of note used to come from Bologna and 
Ferrara just to hear Veronica read her 
poems, and to talk over together the 



CorrcGOto 



321 



things they all loved. At these conferences 
Antonio was often present. He was eight- 
een, perhaps, when his sketches were first 
shown at Veronica's little court of art 
and letters. He had taken lessons from 
the local painters, and visiting artists 
gave him the benefit of advice and critic- 
ism. Then Veronica had many engravings 
and various copies of good pictures. The 
boy was immersed in beauty, and all he 
did he did for Veronica Gambara. She was 
no longer young — she surely was old enough 
to have been the boy's mother, and this 
was well. Such a love as this is spiritual- 
ised under the right conditions, and works 
itself up into art, where otherwise it might 
go dancing down the wanton winds and 
spend itself in folly. 

Antonio painted for Veronica. All good 
things are done for some one else, and 
then after a while a standard of excellence 
is formed, and the artist works to please 
himself. But paradoxically, he still works 
for others — the singer sings for those who 
hear, the writer writes for those who 
understand, and the painter paints for 
those who would paint just such pictures 
as he, if they could. Antonio painted 



little 
Court of 
Brt an^ 
letters 



;22 



Xittle 5outneps 



Bssocfas 

ttona of a 

IRame 



just such pictures as Veronica liked — she 
fixed the standard and he worked up to it. 
And then who could possibly have fore- 
told that the work of the baker's boy 
would rescue the place from oblivion, 
so that anywhere where the word is men- 
tioned, ''Correggio" should mean the boy 
Antonio Allegri, and not the village nor 
the wide domain of the Corregghesi! 



323 



THE distinguishing feature of Correggio's 
work is his putti. He delighted in 
these well-fed, unspanked, and needlessly 
healthy cherubs. These rollicksome, frol- 
icsome, dimpled boy babies — and that they 
are boys is a fact which I trust will not 
be denied — ^he has them ever3rwhere! 

Paul Veronese brings in his omnipresent 
dog — ^in every "Veronese," there he is, 
waiting quietly for his master. Even at 
the "Assumption" he sits in one comer, 
about to bark at the angels. The dog 
obtrudes until you reach a point where 
you do not recognise a "Veronese" with- 
out the dog — then you are grateful for 
the dog, and surely would scorn a "Veron- 
ese" minus the canine attachment. We 
demand at least one dog, as our legal 
and inborn right, with every "Veronese." 



Correggfo'; 
Cberubd 



324 



Xlttle Journeys 



dovtcggio's 
Cberubs 



So, too, we claim the cherubs of Correg- 
gio as our own. They are so oblivious of 
clothes, so beautifully indifferent to the 
proprieties, so delightfully self-sufficient! 
They have no parents; they are mostly 
of one size, and are all of one gender. They 
hide behind the folds of every apostle's 
cloak, peer into the Magdalen's jar of 
precious ointment, cling to the leg of St. 
Joseph, make faces at Saint Bernard, at- 
tend in a body at the "Annunciation" — 
as if it were any of their business — ^hover 
everywhere at the ''Eetrothal," and look 
on wonderingly from the rafters, or make 
fun of the Wise Men in the stable. 

They invade the inner courts of Heaven, 
and are so in the way that St. Peter 
falls over them, much to their amusement. 
They seat themselves astride of clouds, 
some fall off, to the great delight of their 
mates, and still others give their friends 
a boost over shadows that are in the way. 

I said they had no parents — they surely 
have a father, and he is Correggio; but 
they are all in sore need of a mother's care. 

I believe it was Schiller who once inti- 
mated that it took two to love anything 
into being. But Correggio seems to have 



COVVCQQiO 



325 



performed the task of conjuring forth 
these putti all alone ; yet it is quite possible 
that Veronica Gambara helped him. That 
he loved them is very sure — only love could 
have made them manifest. This man was 
a lover of children, otherwise he could 
not have loved putti, for he sympathised 
with all their baby pranks, and sorrows 
as well. 

One cherub bumps his head against a 
cloud and straightway lifts a howl that 
must have echoed all through paradise. 
His mouth is open to its utmost limit; 
tears start from between his closed eyes 
that he gouges with chubby fists, and his 
whole face is distorted in intense pigmy 
wrath. One might really feel awfully 
sorry for him were it not for the fact that 
he sticks out one foot trying to kick a 
pla3rEellow who evidently had n't a thing 
to do with the accident. He 's a bad, 
naughty cherub — that is what he is, and 
he deserves to have his obtrusive anatomy 
stung, just a little, with the back of a hair- 
brush, for his own good. 

This same cherub appears in other 
places, once blowing a horn in another's 
ear; and again he is tickling a sleeping 



dbccubs 



326 



Xittle 5ourneps 



Correcjgio's 
Cberuba 



brother's foot with a straw. These putti 
play all the tricks that real babies do, and 
besides have a goodly list of ''stunts" of 
their own. One thing is sure, to Correggio 
heaven would not be heaven without putti ; 
and the chief difference that I see between 
putti and sure enough babies is, that putti 
require no care and babies do. 

Then putti are practical and useful — 
they hold up scrolls, tie back draperies, 
carry pictures, point out great folks, feed 
birds, and in one instance Correggio has 
ten of them leading a dog out to execution. 
They carry the train of the Virgin, assist 
the Apostles, act as ushers, occasionally 
pass the poor-box, make wreaths and 
crowns but I am sorry to say, sometimes 
get into unseemly scuffles for first place. 

They have no wings, yet they soar 
and fly like English sparrows. They are 
not troubled by nervous prostration nor 
introspection. What they feed upon is 
uncertain, but sure it is that they are well 
nourished. A putti needs nothing, not 
even approbation. 

In the dome of the Cathedral at Parma, 
there is a regular flight of them to help 
on the * 'Ascension." They mix in every- 



Correggto 



327 



where, riding on clouds, clinging to robes, 
perching on the shoulders of Apostles, 
everywhere thick in the flight and helping 
on that glorious anabasis. Away, away 
they go — movement — movement every- 
where — right up into the blue dome of 
heaven! As you look up at that most 
magnificent picture, a tinge of sorrow 
comes over you — the putti are all going 
away, and what if they should never 
come back! 

A little girl I know once went with her 
mamma to visit the Cathedral at Parma. 
Mother and daughter stood in silent awe 
for a space, looking up at that cloud of 
vanquishing forms. At last the little 
girl turned to her mother and said, " Mam- 
ma, did you ever see so m.any bare legs 
in all the bom days of your life?" 



dovveggio '0 
Cbecubs 



328 



VI 



Sever, 
painters 



SOME years ago, in a lecture, Mr. John 
La Farge said that the world had pro- 
duced only seven painters that deserved 
to rank in the first class, and one of these 
is Correggio. The speaker did not name 
the other six; and although requested to 
do so, smilingly declined, saying that he 
preferred to allow each auditor to complete 
the Hst for himself. 

One person present made out this Hst 
of seven immortals, and passed the list 
to Mr. Edmund Russell, seated near, for 
comments. This is the list: Michael 
Angelo, Leonardo, Titian, Rembrandt, 
Correggio, Velasquez, Corot. 

Mr. Russell approved the selection, but 
added a note claiming the privilege to 
change and substitute names from time 
to time as his mood might prompt. This 



COVVCQQiO 



329 



seems to me like a very sensible verdict. 
"Who is your favourite author?" is a 
question that is often asked. Just as 
if any one author ever got first place in 
the mind of a strong man and stuck there ! 
Authors jostle each other for first place 
in our hearts. We may have Emerson 
periods and Browning periods when they 
alone minister to us; and so also pictures, 
like music, make their appeals to mood. 

This peaceful, beautiful May day, as 
I write this at my cabin in the woods, 
Correggio seems to be truly one of the 
world's marvellous men. He is near, very 
dear, and yet before him I would stand 
silent and uncovered. 

He did his work and held his peace. 
He was simple, modest, unobtrusive, and 
unpretentious. He was so big that he 
never knew the greatness of his work, 
any more than the author of Hamlet knew 
the immensity of his. 

Correggio was never more than a day's 
journey from home — he toiled in obscurity 
and did his work so grand that it only 
made its final appeal to the future. He 
never painted his own portrait, and no one 
else seemed to consider him worth while; 



Uo([fng in 
©bscurftB 



330 



Xtttle Sourness 



Cotreggfo 
Strucft 
Cbfrteen 



his income was barely sufficient for his 
wants. He was so big that following 
fast upon his life came a lamentable 
decline in art: his personality being so 
great that his son and a goodly flock of 
disciples tried to paint just like him. All 
originality faded out of the fabric of their 
lives, and they were only cheap, tawdry, 
and dispirited imitators. That is one of 
the penalties which nature exacts when 
she vouchsafes a great man to earth — 
all others are condemned to insipidity. 
They are whipped, dispirited, and undone, 
and spontaneity dies a-boming. No man 
should try to do another man's work. 
Note the anatomical inanities of Bernini 
in his attempts to out-Angelo Michael 
Angelo ! 

In this "rushing in" business, keep out, 
or you may count as one more fool. 

Correggio struck thirteen because he 
was himself, and was to a great degree 
even ignorant and indifferent to what the 
world was doing. He was filled with the 
joy of life, and with no furtive eye on the 
future, and no distracting fears concerning 
the present, he did his work and did it 
the best he could. He worked to please 



Correggto 



33^ 



himself, cultivated the artistic conscience 
— scorning to create a single figure that 
did not spring into life because it must. 
All of his pictures are born of this spirit. 

Good old Guido of Parma, afar from 
home, once asked, with tear- filled eyes, 
of a recent visitor there — "And tell me, 
you saw the Cathedral and the Convent 
of San Paola — and are not the cherubs 
of Master Correggio grown to be men 
yet?" 

It is only life and love that give love 
and life. Correggio gave us both out 
of the fullness of a full heart. And grow- 
ing weary when scarce forty years of age, 
he passed out into the silence, but his 
w^ork is ours. 



Hrtietic 
Conscience 



GIOVANNI BELLINI 



333 



3S5 



And if in our day Raphael must give way to 
Botticelli, with how much greater reason should 
Titian in the heights of his art, with all his earthly 
splendour and voluptuous glow, give place to the 
lovely imagination of dear Old Gian Bellini, the 
father of Venetian Art? 

Mrs. Oliphant in The Makers of Venice. 



jfatbec 
of Venee 
tian mrt 



I 



337 



IT is a great thing to teach. I am never 
more complimented then when someone 
addresses me as a "teacher." To give 
yourself in a way that will inspire others 
to think, to do, to become — what nobler 
ambition! To be a good teacher demands 
a high degree of altruism, for one must 
be willing to sink self, to die — as it were 
— that others may live. There is some- 
thing in it very much akin to motherhood 
— a brooding quality. Every true mother 
realises at times that her children are 
only loaned to her — sent from God — 
and the attributes of her body and mind 
are being used by some Power for a 
purpose. The thought tends to refine the 
heart of its dross, obliterate pride, and 
make her feel the sacredness of her office. 
All good men everywhere recognise the 



H 

Brooding 
Stualit^ 



338 Xtttle Sourness 



^be holiness of motherhood — this miracle by 

Efficient -,.-,,-, 

ucacber which the race survives. 

There is a touch of pathos in the thought 
that while lovers live to make them- 
selves necessary to each other, the mother 
is working to make herself unnecessary 
to her children. The true mother is 
training her children to do without her. 
And the entire object of teaching is to 
enable the scholar to do without -his 
teacher. Graduation should take place at 
the vanishing point of the teacher. 

Yes, the efficient teacher has in him 
much of this mother-quality. Thoreau, 
you remember, said that genius is essential- 
ly feminine; if he had teachers in mind 
his remark was certainly true. The men 
of much motive power are not the best 
teachers — ^the arbitrary and imperative 
type that would bend all minds to match 
its own, may build bridges, tunnel moun- 
tains, discover continents, and capture 
cities, but it cannot teach. In the presence 
of such a towering personality freedom 
dies, spontaneity droops, and thought 
slinks away into a corner. The brooding 
quality, the patience that endures, and 
the yearning of motherhood, are all ab- 



3BelUnt 



339 



sent. The man is a commander, not a 
teacher; and there yet remains a grave 
doubt whether the warrior and ruler 
have not used their influence more to 
make this world a place of the skull, than 
the abode of happiness and prosperity. 
The orders to kill all the firstborn, and 
those over ten years of age, were not 
given by teachers. 

The teacher is one who makes two 
ideas grow where there was only one 
before. 

Just here, before we pass on to other 
themes, seems a good place to say that 
we live in a very stupid old world, round 
like an orange and slightly flattened at 
the poles. The proof of this seemingly 
pessimistic remark, made by a hopeful and 
cheerful man, lies in the fact that we place 
small premium in either honour or money 
or the business of teaching. As in the 
olden times, barbers and scullions ranked 
with musicians, and the master of the 
hounds wore a bigger medal than the 
Poet- Laureate, so do we pay our teachers 
the same as coachmen and coal-heavers, 
giving them a plentiful lack of every- 
thing but overwork. 



B Stupid 

ranoriD 



340 



%ittlc 3onvnc^5 



iSnligbts 

enmcnt 

will Come 



I will never be quite willing to admit 
that this country is enlightened until 
we cease the insane and parsimonious 
policy of trying to drive all the really 
strong men and women out of the teaching 
profession by putting them on the pay- 
roll at one-half the rate, or less, than what 
the same brains and energy can com- 
mand elsewhere. In this year of our Lord, 
1902, in a time of peace, we have appro- 
priated four hundred million dollars for 
war and war appliances, and this sum 
is just double the cost of the entire public 
school system in America. It is not the 
necessity of economy that dictates our 
actions in this matter of education — ^we 
simply are not enlightened. 

But this thing cannot always last — I 
look for the time when we shall set apart 
the best and noblest men and women of 
earth for teachers, and their compensa- 
tion will be so adequate that they will 
be free to give themselves for the benefit 
of the race, without apprehension of a 
yawning almshouse. A liberal policy will 
be for our own good, just as a matter of 
cold expediency; it will be enlightened 
self-interest. 



341 



w 



II 



ITH the rise of the Behims, Venetian aacopo 

IBcllini 



art ceased to be provincial, blossom- 
ing out into national. Jacopo Bellini was 
a teacher — mild, gentle, sympathetic, ani- 
mated. His work reveals personality, but 
is somewhat stiff and statuesque: sharp 
in outline like an antique stained -glass 
window. This is because his art was 
descended from the glass workers; and he 
himself continued to make designs for 
the glass -workers of Murano all his life. 
Considering the time in which he lived 
he was a great painter, for he improved 
upon what had gone before and prepared 
the way for those greater than he who 
were yet to come. He called himself an ex- 
perimenter, and around him there clustered 
a goodly group of young men who were 
treated by him more as comrades than 



342 



%ittlc Journeys 



Jatber 
and Son 



as students. They were all boys together 
— learners, with the added dignity which 
an older head of the right sort can lend. 

"Old Jacopo" they used to call him, 
and there was a touch of affection in the 
term to which several of them have 
testified. All of the pupils loved the 
old man, who was n't so very old in years, 
and certainly was not in heart. Among 
his pupils were his two sons. Gentile and 
Gian, and they called him Old Jacopo, 
too. I rather like this — ^it proves for one 
thing that the boys were not afraid 
of their father. They surely did not run 
and hide when they heard him coming, 
neither did they find it necessary to tell 
lies in order to defend themselves. A 
severe parent is sure to have untruthful 
children, and perhaps the best recipe 
for having noble children is to be a noble 
parent. 

It is well to be a companion to your 
children, and just where the idea came in 
which developed into the EngHsh board- 
ing-school delusion, that children should 
be sent away among hirelings — separated 
from their parents — in oi:der to be edu- 
cated, I do not know. It surely was not 



JSellmt 



343 



complimentary to the parents. Old Jacopo 
did n't try very hard to discipline his 
boys — ^he loved them, which is better if 
you are forced to make choice. They 
worked together and grew together. Be- 
fore Gian and Gentile were eighteen they 
coiild paint as well as their father. When 
they were twenty they excelled him, and 
no one was more elated over it than Old 
Jacopo. They were doing things he could 
never do: overcoming obstacles he could 
not overcome — ^he clapped his hands in 
gladness, did this old teacher, and shed 
tears of joy — ^his pupils were surpassing 
him! Gian and Gentile would not admit 
this, but still they kept right on, each 
vying with the other. Vasari says that 
Gian was the better artist, but Aldus 
refers to Gentile as ''the undisputed 
master of painting in all Venetia. ' ' Ruskin 
compromises by explaining that Gentile 
had the broader and deeper nature, but 
that Gian was more feminine, more poetic, 
nearer lyric, possessing a delicacy and 
insight that his brother never acquired. 
These qualities better fitted him for a 
teacher, and when Old Jacopo passed away, 
Gian drifted into his place, for every 



(3fan an& 
(Bcntilc 



344 Xtttle Sourness 



©ian'g man is gravitating straight to where he 

ipupiis belongs. 

The Httle workshop of one room now 
was enlarged: the bottega became an 
atelier. There were groups of workrooms 
and studios, and a small gallery that be- 
came the meeting place for various literary 
and artistic visitors at Venice. Ludovico 
Ariosto, greatest of Italian poets, came 
here and wrote a sonnet to " Gian Bellini, 
sublime artist, performer of great things, 
but best of all the loving teacher of men." 
Gian Bellini had two pupils whose 
name and fame are deathless: Giorgione 
and Titian. There is a fine flavour of ro- 
mance surrounding Giorgione, the gentle 
the refined, the beloved. His was a spirit 
like unto that of Chopin or Shelley, and 
his death dirge should have been written 
by the one and set to music by the other 
— ^brothers dolorosa, sent into this rough 
world unprepared for its buffets, passing 
away in manhood's morning. Yet all 
heard the song of the skylark. Giorgione 
died broken-hearted, through his lady- 
love's inconstancy. He was exactly the 
same age as Titian, and while he lived 
surpassed that giant far, as the giant 



JSellini 



345 



himself admitted. He died aged thirty- 
three, the age at which a full dozen of the 
greatest men in the world have died, and 
the age at which several other very great 
men have been bom again — which possibly 
is the same thing. Titian lived to be a 
hundred, lacking six months, and when 
past seventy used to give alms to a beggar- 
woman at a church door — the woman 
who had broken the heart of Giorgione. 
He also painted her portrait — this in sad 
remembrance of the days agone. 

The Venetian School of Art has been 
divided by Ruskin into three parts: the 
first begins with Jacopo Bellini, and this 
part might be referred to as the budding 
period. The second is the flowering period, 
and the palm is carried by Gian Bellini. 
The period of ripe fruit — o'er-ripe fruit, 
touched by the tint of death — is repre- 
sented by four men: Giorgione, Titian, 
Tintoretto, and Paul Veronese. Beyond 
these four, Venetian Art has never gone, 
and although four hundred years have 
elapsed since they laughed and sang, en- 
joyed and worked, all we can do is to 
wonder and admire. We can imitate, 
but we cannot improve. 



IDcnetian 
Scbool of 

art 



346 



to tbe £nb 



%ittlc 3ournei^s 



Gian Bellini lived to be ninety-two, 
working to the last, always a learner, 
always a teacher. His best work was 
done after his eightieth year. His cast-off 
shell of this great spirit was placed in the 
tomb with that of his brother Gentile, 
who had passed out but a few years before. 
Death did not divide them. 



Ill 



347 



GIOVANNI BELLINI was his name. 
Yet when people who loved beauti- 
ful pictures spoke of "Gian," every one 
knew who was meant, but to those who 
worked at art he was "The Master." He 
was two inches under six feet in height, 
strong and muscular. In spite of his seventy 
summers his carriage was erect and there 
was a jaunty suppleness about his gait 
that made him seem much younger. In 
fact no one would have believed that he 
had lived over his three score and ten were 
it not for the iron grey hair that fluffed 
out all around under the close fitting 
black cap, and the bronzed complexion — 
sun-kissed by wind and weather — which 
formed a trinity of opposites that made 
people turn and stare. 

Queer stories used to be told about him. 



Oian tbe 
faster 



348 



3Little 5ournei^s 



Ube 
Ibuncbbacf! 



He was a skilful gondolier, and it was 
the daily row back and forth from the Lido 
that gave him that face of bronze. Folks 
said he ate no meat and drank no wine, 
and that his food was simply ripe figs in 
the season, with course rye bread and 
nuts. Then there was that funny old 
hunchback, a hundred years old at least 
and stone deaf, who took care of the 
gondola, spending the whole day, waiting 
for his master, washing the trim, graceful 
blue-black boat, arranging the awning 
with the white cords and tassels, and 
polishing the little brass lions at the sides. 
People tried to question the old hunchback, 
but he gave no secrets away. The Master 
always stood up behind and rowed, while 
down on the cushions, rode the hunchback, 
the guest of honour. 

There stood the Master erect, plying 
the oar, his long black robe tucked up under 
the dark blue sash that exactly matched 
the colour of the gondola. The man's 
motto might have been, ''Ich dien," or 
that passage of Scripture, " He that is 
greatest among you shall be your servant." 
Suspended around his neck by a slender 
chain was a bronze medal, presented by 



JSellini 



349 



vote of the Signoria when the great 
picture of The Transfiguration was 
unveiled. If this medal had been a 
crucifix, and you had met the wearer in 
San Marco, one glance at the finely 
chiseled features, the black cap and the 
flowing robe and you would have said at 
once that the man was a priest. Vicar 
General of some important diocese. But 
seeing him standing erect on the stern 
of a gondola, the wind caressing the dark 
grey hair, you would have been perplexed, 
until your gondolier explained in serious 
undertone that you had just passed " the 
greatest painter in all Venice, Gian, the 
Master." 

Then if you showed curiosity and wanted 
to know further, your gondolier would 
have told you more about this strange 
man. 

The canals of Venice are the highways, 
and the gondoliers are like 'bus drivers 
in Piccadilly — they know everybody and 
are in close touch with all the secrets of 
State. When you get to the Gindecca 
and tie up for lunch, over a bottle of 
chianti, your gondolier will tell you this: 

The hunchback there in the gondola, 



Ube 

©reatcst 

flJainter in 

Venice 



35° 



Xittle Journeps 



(Bforgione rowed by the Master, is the devil who 
has taken that form just to be with and 
guard the greatest artist the world has 
ever seen. Yes, Signor, that clean-faced 
man with his frank, wide open, brown 
eyes is in league with the Evil One, He 
is the man who took young Tiziano from 
Cadore into his shop, right out of a glass 
factory, and made him a great artist, 
getting him commissions and introducing 
him everywhere! And how about the 
divine Giorgione who called him father? 
Oho! 

And who is Giorgione? The son of some 
unknown peasant woman. And if Bellini 
wanted to adopt him, treat him as his 
son indeed, kissing him on the cheek 
when he came back just from a day's 
visit to Mestre, whose business was it! 
Oho! 

Beside that, his name is n't Giorgione — 
it is Giorgio BarbarelH. And did n't this 
Giorgio BarbarelH, and Tiziano from Ca- 
dore, and Espero Carbonne, and that 
Gustavo from Nuremberg, and the others 
paint most of Gian's pictures? Surely 
they did. The old man simply washes 
in the backgrounds and the boys do the 



JSelltnt 



351 



work. About all old Gian does is to 
sign the picture, sell it, and pocket the 
proceeds. Carpaccio helps him, too, — 
Carpaccio, who painted the loveliest little 
angel sitting cross-legged playing the 
biggest mandolin you ever saw in your 
life. 

That is genius, you know, the ability 
to get some one else to do the work, and 
then capture the ducats and the honours 
for yourself. Of course Gian knows how to 
lure the boys on — something has to be 
done in order to hold them. Gian buys 
a picture from them now and then; his 
studio is full of their work — ^better than 
he can do. Oh, he knows a good thing 
when he sees it. These pictures will be 
valuable some day, and he gets them at 
his own price. It was Antonello of 
Messina who introduced oil painting in 
Venice. Before that they mixed their 
paints with water, milk, or wine. But 
when Antonello came along with his dark 
lustrous pictures, he set all artistic Venice 
astir. Gian Bellini discovered the secret, 
they say, by feigning to be a gentleman 
and going to the newcomer and sitting 
for his picture. He it was who discovered 



H Secret 
Discovereb 



35^ 



Xtttle Journeps 



©fan an& 

tbe 
(Secmans 



that Antonello mixed his colours with 
oil. Oho! 

Of course not all the pictures in his 
studio are painted by the boys — some are 
painted by that old Dutchman what-'s-his- 
name — oh, yes, Durer, Alberto Diirer 
of Nuremberg. Two Nuremberg painters 
were in that very gondola last week just 
where you sit — they are here in Venice 
now, taking lessons from Gian, they said. 
Gian was up there at Nuremberg and lived 
a month with Diirer — they worked together, 
drank beer together, I suppose, and 
caroused. Gian is very strict about what 
he does in Venice, but you can never tell 
what a man will do when he is away from 
home. The Germans are a roystering 
lot — ^but they do say they can paint. 
Me? I have never been there — and do not 
want to go, either — ^there are no canals 
there. To be sure, they print books in 
Nuremberg. It was up there somewhere 
that they invented type, a lazy scheme to 
do away with writing. They are a thrifty 
lot — ^those Germans — ^they give me my 
fare and a penny more, just a single 
penny, and no matter how much I have 
talked and pointed out the wonderful 



JSelltnt 



353 



sights, and imparted useful information, 
known to me alone — only one penny extra 
— ^think of it. 

Yes, printing was first done at Mayence 
by a German, Gutenberg, about sixty 
years ago. One of Gutenberg's workmen 
went up to Nuremberg and taught others 
how to design and cast type. This man 
Alberto Durer helped them, designing the 
initials and making their title page by- 
cutting the design on a wood block, then 
covering this block with ink, laying a 
sheet of paper upon it, placing it in a 
press, and then when the paper is lifted 
off it looks exactly like the original drawing. 
In fact most people could n't tell the differ- 
ence, and here you can print thousands 
of them from the one block! 

Gian Bellini makes drawings for title 
pages and initials for Aldus and Nicholas 
Jenson. Venice is the greatest printing 
place in the world, and yet the business 
began here only thirty years ago. The 
first book printed here was in 1469, by 
John of Speyer. There are nearly two 
hundred licensed printing presses here, 
and it takes usually four men to a press — 
two to set the type and get things ready. 



drawings 

for XtCtlc 

Ipages 



354 



Xlttle 3o\xvnc^5 



S>utcbmen 

in (Bian's 

Stu&fo 



and two to run the press. This does not 
count, of course, the men who write the 
books, and those who make the type and 
cut the blocks from which they print 
the pictures for illustrations. At first 
you know the books they printed in 
Venice had no title pages, initials, or 
illustrations. My father was a printer 
and he remembers when the first large 
initials were printed — ^before that the 
spaces were left blank and the books were 
sent out to the monasteries to be com- 
pleted by hand. 

Gian and Gentile had a good deal to 
do about cutting the first blocks for initials 
— they got the idea, I think from Nu- 
remberg. And now there are Dutchmen 
down here from Amsterdam learning 
how to print books, and paint pictures. 
Several of them are in Gian's studio, I 
hear — every once in a while I get them for 
a trip to the Lido or to Murano. 

Gentile Bellini is his brother and looks 
very much like him. The Grand Turk 
at Constantinople came here once and saw 
Gian Bellini at work in the Great Hall. 
He wanted the Senate to sell Gian to him, 
thinking he was a slave. They humoured 



JBelltni 



355 



the pagan by hiring Gentile BelHni to go 
instead, loaning him out for two years, 
so to speak. 

Gentile went, and the Sultan, who never 
allowed any one to stand before him, all 
having to grovel in the dirt, treated 
Gentile as an equal. Gentile even taught 
the old rogue to draw a little, and they 
say the painjer had a key to every room 
in the palace, and was treated like a 
prince. Well, they got along all right, 
until one day Gentile drew the picture 
of the head of John the Baptist on a 
charger. 

"A man's head doesn't look like that 
when it is cut off," said the Turk con- 
temptuously. Gentile had forgotten that 
the Turk was on familiar ground. 

"Perhaps the Light of the Sun knows 
more about painting than I do!" said 
Gentile, as he kept right on at his work. 

**I may not know much about painting, 
but I 'm no fool in some other things I 
might name," was the reply. 

The Sultan clapped his hands three 
times: two slaves appeared from opposite 
doors. One was a little ahead of the 
other, and as this one approached, the 



©cntUe 
3BeUinf 
anb tbe 
Sultan 



356 Xtttle 5outnepB 



H tRivai Sultan with a single swing of the snicker- 
snee snipped off his head. This teaches 
us that obedience to our superiors is its 
own reward. But the lesson was wholly 
lost on Gentile Bellini, for he did not even 
remain to examine the severed head 
for art's sake. The thought that it 
might be his turn next was supreme, and 
he leaped through a window, taking the 
sash with him. Making his way to the 
docks he found a sailing vessel loading 
with fruit, bound for Venice. A small 
purse of gold made the matter easy — ^the 
captain of the boat secreted him, and in 
four days he was safely back in St. Mark's 
giving thanks to God for his deliverance. 
No, I did n't say Gian was a rogue — 
I only told you what others say. I am 
only a poor gondolier, why should I trouble 
myself about what great folks do? I 
simply tell you what I hear — it may be 
so, and it may not; God knows! There 
is that Pascale Salvini — he has a rival 
studio, and when that Genoese, Christoforo 
Colombo, was here and made his stopping 
place at Bellini's studio, Pascale told every 
one that Colombo was a lunatic, and 
Bellini another, for encouraging him to 



:^elllnt 



357 



show his fooHsh maps and charts. Now, 
they do say that Colombo has discovered 
a new world, and Italians are feeling trou- 
bled in conscience because they did not 
fit him out with ships instead of forcing 
him to go to Spain. 

No, I did n't say Bellini was a hypocrite, 
— Pascale's pupils say so, and once they 
foUow^ed him over to Murano — ^three barca 
loads and my gondola beside. 

You see it was like this : Twice a week 
just after sundown, we used to see Gian 
Bellini untie his boat from the landing 
there behind the Doge's palace, turn the 
prow, and beat out for Murano, with no 
companion but that deaf old care-taker. 
Twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays, — 
always at just the same hour, regardless 
of weather, we would see the old hunch- 
back light the lamps, and in a few mo- 
ments the Master would appear, tuck 
up his black robe, step in the boat, take 
the oar, and away they would go. It was 
always to Murano, and always to the same 
landing — one of our gondoliers had fol- 
lowed several times, just out of curiosity. 

Finally it came to the ears of Pascale 
that Gian took this regular trip to Murano. 



©ian's 
^rip to 
ilDurano 



358 



Xxttle Journeys 



Students 



" It is a rendezvous," said Pascale. ''Worse 
than that an orgy among those lace- 
makers and the rogues of the glass-works. 
Oh, to think that Gian should stoop to 
such things at his age — ^his pretended 
asceticism is but a mask — and at his age!" 

The Pascale students took it up, and 
once came in collision with that Tiziano 
of Cadore, who they say broke a boat-hook 
over the head of them who had spoken 
ill of the Master. 

But this did not silence the talk, and 
one dark night, when the air was full 
of flying mist, one of Pascale's students 
came to me and told me that he wanted 
me to take a party over to Murano. The 
weather was so bad that I refused to go — 
the wind blew in gusts, sheet lightning 
filled the eastern sky, and all honest men, 
but poor belated gondoliers, had hied 
them home. 

I refused to go. 

Had I not seen Gian the painter go not 
half an hour before? Well, if he could 
go, others could too. 

I refused to go — except for double fare. 

He accepted and placed the double fare 
in silver in my palm. Then he gave a 



JSelUni 



359 



whistle and from behind the comers came 
trooping enough swashbuckler students 
to swamp my gondola. I let in just 
enough to fill the seats and pushed off, 
leaving several standing on the stone 
steps cursing me and everything and 
everybody. 

As my good boat slid away into the fog 
and headed on our course, I glanced back 
and saw the three barca loads following in 
my wake. 

There was much muffled talk, and 
orders from some one in charge to keep 
silence. But there was passing of strong 
drink, and then talk, and from it I gathered 
that these were all students from Pascale's 
out on one of those student carousals, 
intent on Heaven knows what! It was 
none of my business. 

We shipped considerable water, and 
several of the students were down on 
their knees praying and bailing, bailing 
and praying. 

At last we reached the Murano landing. 
All got out, the barcas tied up, and I tied 
up, too, determined to see what was 
doing. The strong drink was passed, and 
a low heavy-set fellow who seemed to be 



student 
Carousals 



360 



Xtttle 5ourne^s 



Stuienta* 

1Ra(a on 

(Bian 



captain charged all not to speak, but to 
follow him and do as he did. 

We took a side street where there 
was little travel and followed through 
the dark and dripping way, fully a half 
mile, down there in that end of the island 
called the sailor's broglio, where they 
say no man's life is safe if he has a silver 
coin or two. There was much music 
in the wine shops and shouts of mirth and 
dancing feet on stone floors, but the rain 
had driven every one from the streets. 

We came to a long low stone building 
that used to be a theatre, but was now a 
dance hall upstairs and a warehouse below. 
There were lights upstairs and sounds of 
music. The stairway was dark, but we 
felt our way up and on tiptoe advanced 
to the big double door, from under which 
the light streamed. 

We had received our orders, and when 
we got to the landing we stood there just 
an instant. '' Now we have him — Gian 
the hypocrite!" whispered the stout man 
in a hoarse breath. We burst in the doors 
with a whoop and a bang. The change 
from the dark to the light sort of blinded 
us at first. We all supposed that there 



JSelltnt 



361 



was a dance in progress of course, and the 
screams from women were just what 
we expected, but when we saw several 
overturned easels and an old man, half 
nude, and too scared to move, seated on 
a model throne, we did not advance into 
the hall as we intended. That one yell 
we gave was all the noise we made. We 
stood there in a bunch, just inside the 
door, sort of dazed and uncertain. We 
did not know whether to retreat, or 
charge on through the hall as we had 
intended. We just stood there like a lot 
of drivelling fools. 

''Keep right at your work, my good 
people. Keep right at your work!" called 
a pleasant voice. ''I see we have some 
visitors." 

And Gian Bellini came forward. His 
robe was still tucked up under the blue 
sash, but he had laid aside his black cap, 
and his tumbled grey hair looked like 
the aureole of a saint. " Keep right at your 
work," he said again, and then came 
forv/ard and bade us welcome and begged 
us to have seats. 

I dared not run away, so I sat down 
on one of the long seats that were ranged 



Stu&ents 
put to 
Sbame 



362 



Xtttle Journeys 



©fan's 
Delping 



around the wall. My companions did 
the same. There must have been fifty 
easels, all ranged in a semi-circle around 
the old man who posed as a model. Several 
of the easels had been upset, and there 
was much confusion when we entered. 

"Just help us to arrange things — ^that 
is right, thank you," said Gian to the 
stout man who was captain of our party. 
To my astonishment the stout man was 
doing just as he was bid, and was pacify- 
ing the women students and straightening 
up their easels and stools. 

I was interested in watching Gian 
walking around, helping this one with a 
stroke of his crayon, saying a word to that, 
smiling and nodding to another. I just 
sat there and stared. These students were 
not regular art students, I could see that 
plainly. Some were children, ragged and 
bare-legged, others were old men who 
worked in the glass factories, and surely 
with hands too old and stiff to ever paint 
well. Still others were young girls and 
women of the town. I rubbed my eyes 
and tried to make it out! 

The music we heard I could still hear — 
it came from the wine-shop across the 



mcllini 



3^3 



way. I looked around and what do you 
believe? My companions had all gone. 
They had sneaked out one by one and 
left me alone. 

I watched my chance and when the 
Master's back was turned I tiptoed out, 
too. 

When I got down on the street I found 
I had left my cap, but I dared not go back 
after it. I made my way down to the 
landing, half running, and when I got 
there not a boat was to be seen — ^the three 
barcas and my gondola were gone. 

I thought I could see them, out through 
the mist, a quarter of a mile away. I 
called aloud, but no answer came back 
but the hissing wind. I was in despair — 
they were stealing my boat, and if they 
did not steal it, it would surely be wrecked 
— my all, my precious boat! 

I cried and wrung my hands. I prayed! 
And the howling winds only ran shrieking 
and laughing around the comers of the 
building. 

I saw a glimmering light down the 
beach at a little landing. I ran to it, 
hoping some gondolier might be found who 
would row me over to the city. There 



Hn 2)espair 



3^4 



Xittle Journeys 



•fln (5ian*s 
3Boat 



was one boat at the landing and in it a 
hunchback, sound asleep, covered by a 
canvas. It was Gian Bellini's boat. I 
shook the hunchback into wakefulness and 
begged him to row me across to the city. 
I yelled into his deaf ears, but he pretended 
not to understand me. Then I showed 
him the silver coin — the double fare, and 
tried to place it in his hand. But no, he 
only shook his head. 

I ran up the beach, still looking for a 
boat. 

An hour had passed. 

I got back to the landing just as Gian 
came down to his boat. I approached him 
and explained that I was a poor worker 
in the glass factory, who had to work 
all day and half the night, and as I lived 
over in the city and my wife was dying, 
I must get home. Would he allow me to 
ride with His Highness? ''Certainly — 
with pleasure, with pleasure! " he answered, 
and then pulling something from under his 
sash he said, "Is this your cap, signor?" 
I took my cap, but my tongue was para- 
lysed for the moment so I could not thank 
him. 

We stepped into the boat, and as my 



JSellini 



365 



offer to row was declined, I just threw 
myself down by the hunchback, and the 
prow swung around and headed toward 
the city. 

The wind had died down, the rain had 
ceased, and from between the blue-black 
clouds the moon shone out. Gian rowed 
with a, strong, fine stroke, singing a 
Te Deum Laudamus softly to himself the 
while. 

I lay there and wept, thinking of my 
boat, my all, my precious boat! 

We reached the landing — and there 
was my boat, safely tied up, not a cushion 
nor cord missing. 

Gian Bellini? He may be a rogue as 
Pascale says — God knows! How can I 
tell — I am only a poor gondolier. 



m Spirit 
of I>raiee 



BENVENUTO CELLINI 



367 



3^9 



It is a duty incumbent upon upright and credible 
men of all ranks, who have performed anything 
noble or praiseworthy, to truthfully record, in their 
own writing, the principal events of their lives. 



B DutB 



Benvenuto Cellini. 



371 



"T^HE man who is thoroughly interested 
A in himself is interesting to other 
people," Wendell Phillips once said. 

Good healthy egotism in literature is 
the red corpuscle that makes the thing 
live. Cupid naked and unashamed, is 
always beautiful; we turn away only 
when some very proper person perceives 
he is naked and attempts to better the 
situation by supplying him a coat of 
mud. 

The Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff , wherein 
are many morbid musings and infor- 
mation as to the development of her mind 
and anatomy, is intensely interesting; 
Amiel's Journal holds us with a tireless 
grasp; the Confessions of St. Augustine 
can never die; Jean Jacques Rousseau's 
book was the favourite of such a trinity of 



JSgotfsm 



372 



Xxttle Journei^s 



Untense 
Ipecsonals 



opposites as Emerson, George Eliot, and 
Walt Whitman; Pepys' Diary is so dull 
it is entertaining; and the Memoirs of 
Benvenuto Cellini have made a mediocre 
man immortal. 

Cellini had an intense personality; he 
was skilful as a workman; he told the 
truth as he saw it, and if he ever prevari- 
cated it was simply by failing to mention 
certain things that he considered were no 
credit to anybody. But his friendships 
were shallow; those he respected most, 
say Michael Angelo and Raphael, treated 
him as Prince Henry finally did Falstaff, 
never allowing him to come within half a 
mile of their person on penalty. He was 
intimate with so many women that he 
apologised for not remembering them; 
he had no interest in his children, and 
most of his plans and purposes were of a 
pattypan order. Yet he wrote two val- 
uable treatises — one on the art of the gold- 
smith and the other on the casting of bronze ; 
there is also an essay on architecture that 
contains some good ideas; and courtier 
that he was, of course wrote some poetry, 
which is not so bad as it might be. But 
the book upon which his reputation rests 



Cellini 



is the Memoirs, and a great book it is. 
All these things seem to show that a man 
can be a great author and yet have a small 
soul. Have n't we overrated this precious 
gift of authorship just a trifle? 

Taine said that educated Englishmen all 
write alike — ^they are all equally sVjtJ/i. 
And John Addington S^mionds, &.n edu- 
cated Englishman, and the best vri.r.Chr. ir 
of Cellini, wrote, '' Happily Cellini was 
unspoiled by Hteraiy^ training.'* G:r:he 
translated Cellini's book into Gerrr.i.r. a.r.d 
paid the doughty Italian the corr-^-lirr-rr.': 
of sa^-ing that he did the task out of r. jre 
enjo\'ment, and incidentally to improve 
his literar}^ st\'le. 

Cellini is not exactly Hke us, and when 
we read his book we aU give thanks that 
we are not like him, but every trait that 
he had large, we have in little. CeUini 
was sincere; he never doubted his 
own infallibilit\', but he points out tm- 
tiringly the fallibilities in various popes 
and ever^'body else. THien CeUini goes 
out and kills a man before breakfast, he 
absolves himself by showing that the 
man richly deserved his fate. The brag- 
gar: and bully are really cowards at the 



Sizmzixs 



374 



Xtttle 5ournei2S 



Httacfts 

of 
3caIou8g 



last. A man who is wholly brave would 
not think to brag of it. He would be as 
brave in his calm moments as in moments 
of frenzy — ^take old John Brown, for 
instance. But when Cellini had a job 
on hand he first worked himself into a 
torrent of righteous wrath. He poses as 
the injured one, the victim of double, deep- 
dyed conspiracies, and so he goes through 
life afraid of every one, and is one of whom 
all men are afraid. 

Every artist has occasional attacks of 
artistic jealousy, and happy is the man 
who contents himself with the varioloid 
variety. Cellini had three kinds: acute, 
virulent, and chronic. 

Berlioz has worked the man up into 
a strong and sinewy drama ; several others 
have done the same; but it will require 
the combined skill of Rostand, Mansfield, 
and Samuel Eberly Gross to ever do the 
character justice. 

John Morley says, "There is nothing 
worse than mettle in a blind horse." So 
one might say there is nothing w^orse than 
sincerity in a superstitious person. Ben- 
venuto Cellini is the true type of a literary 
and artistic bad man. Had he lived in 



Cellini 



375 



Colorado in 1870, the vigilance committee 
would have used him to start a graveyard. 
But he is so open, so simple, so candid, 
that we laugh at his lapses, admire his 
high resolves, sigh at his follies, sympathise 
with his spasms of repentance, and smile 
a misty smile at one who is humorous 
without meaning to be, who was deeply 
religious but never pious, who was highly 
conscientious, undoubtedly artistic, and 
who blundered through life, always in a 
turmoil, hopelessly entangled in the web 
of fate, committing every crime, justifying 
himself in everything, and finally passing 
out peacefully, sincerely believing that 
he had lived a Christian life. 



Cbaracter 



376 



II 



H scorpion DENVENUTO CELLINI was bom in 
jLJ Florence in the year 1500, the day 
after the festival of All Souls, at four-thirty 
precisely in the afternoon. 

The name Benvenuto means welcome: 
the world welcomed Benvenuto from the 
first. When five years of age he seized 
upon a live scorpion that he found in the 
yard and carried it into the house. His 
father seeing the deadly creature in his 
hand sought to get him to throw it away, 
but he only clung the tighter to the 
plaything. The parent then grabbed a 
pair of shears and cut off the tail, mouth, 
and claws of the scorpion, much to the 
wrath of the child. 

Shortly after this he was seated by his 
father's side looking into a brazier of 
coals. All at once they saw a salamander 



Cellini 377 



in the fire, wiggling about in pla3rful mood, 3Benve= 
literally making its bed in hell. Many jpatbec 
men go through life without seeing a single 
salamander; neither Darwin, Spencer, Hux- 
ley, nor Wallace ever saw one; they are 
so rare that occasionally there be men 
who deny their existence, for we are very 
apt to deny the existence of anything we 
have not seen. In truth, Benvenuto 
never saw but this one salamander, but 
this one was enough: coupled with the 
incident of the scorpion it was an augury 
that the boy would have a great career, 
be in many a hot position, and march 
through life triumphant and unscathed — 
God takes care of his own. 

The father of Benvenuto was a designer, 
a goldsmith, and an engineer, and he 
might have succeeded in a masterly way 
in these sublime arts had he not early 
in life acquired the habit of the flute. 
He played the flute all day long, and often 
played the flute in the morning and the 
fife at night. As it was the flute that 
had won him his gracious wife, he thanked 
God for the gift and continued to play as 
long as he had breath. 

Now it was his ambition that his son 



378 



!!Ltttle Journei^s 



3Bent 



should play the flute, too, as all fond 
fathers regard themselves as a worthy 
pattern on which their children should 
model their manners and morals. But 
Benvenuto despised the damnable in- 
vention of a flute — ^it was only blowing 
one's breath through a horn and making 
a noise; yet to please his father he mastered 
the instrument, and actuated by a filial 
piety he occasionally played in a way that 
caused his father and mother to weep 
with joy. 

But the boy's bent was for drawing and 
modelling in wax — all of his spare time 
was spent in this work and so great was 
his skill that when he was sixteen he was 
known throughout all Florence. About 
this time his brother, two years younger 
than himself, had the misfortune one 
day to be set upon by a gang of miscreants 
and was nigh being killed when Benvenuto 
ran to his rescue and seizing his sword 
laid around him lustily. The miscreants 
were just making off, when a party of 
gendarmes appeared and arrested all con- 
cerned. The rogues were duly tried, 
convicted, and sentenced to banishment 
from the city. 



Cellini 



379 



Benvenuto and his brother were also 
banished. 

Shortly after this Benvenuto found 
himself at Pisa on the road to Rome. He 
was footsore, penniless, and as he stood 
gazing into the window of a goldsmith the 
proprietor came out and asked him his 
business. He replied, " Sir, I am a designer 
and a goldsmith of no mean ability." 

Straightway the man seeing the lad 
was likely and honest, set him to work. 
The motto of the boy at this time was 
supplied by his father. It ran thus: 
"In whatsoever house you may be, steal 
not and live honestlee. " 

Seeing this motto, the proprietor straight- 
way trusted him with all the precious jewels 
in the store. He remained a year in 
Pisa, and was very happy and contented 
in his work, for never once did he have to 
play the flute, nor did he hear one played. 
Nearly every week came loving letters 
from his father begging him to come home, 
and admonishing him not to omit practice 
on the flute. 

At the end of a year he got a touch of 
fever and concluded to go home, as Flor- 
ence was much more healthy than Pisa. 



H lear in 
Ipisa 



sso Xtttle Journei^s 



•Returns Arriving home his father embraced him 
with tears of unfeigned joy: His changed 
and manly appearance pleased his family 
greatly. And straightway when their tears 
were dried and welcomes said, his father 
placed a flute in his hands and begged 
him to play in order that he might see if 
his playing had kept pace with his growth 
and skill in other ways. 

The young man set the instrument to 
his lips and played an original selection in 
a way that made his father shout with 
joy, *' Genius is indispensable, but practice 
alone makes perfect!" 



Ill 



381 



MICHAEL ANGELO was bom twenty- 
five years before Cellini ; their homes 
were not far apart. In the Gardens of 
Lorenzo the Magnificent, Michael Angelo 
had received that strong impetus to- 
ward the beautiful that was to last him 
throughout his long and arduous life. 

When Cellini was eighteen the Master 
was at Rome, doing the work of the Pope, 
the pride of all artistic Florence, and to- 
ward the Eternal City Cellini looked 
longingly. He haunted the galleries and 
gardens where broken fragments of antique 
and modem marbles were to be seen, 
and stood long before the Pieta of 
Michael Angelo in the Church of Santa 
Croce, wondering if he could ever do as 
well. 

About this time he tells us that he copied 



Bbmiraa 
tion for 
/IDtcbael 
Hngelo 



382 Xittle 5ourneigs 

mjBiovp that famous cartoon of Michael Angelo's, 
Soldiers Bathing in the Arno, made 
in competition with Leonardo for the 
decoration of the Palazzo Vecchio, which 
he declares marks the highest pitch of 
power attained by the Master. While 
at his work there appeared in Florence 
one Pietro Torrigiani, who had been an 
exile in England for over twenty years. 
The visitor held Cellini's drawing in his 
hand, studied it carefully and remarked : 
''1 know this man Michael Angelo Buon- 
arrotti — ^we used to draw and work to- 
gether under the tutorship of Masaccio. 
One day Buonarrotti annoyed me and I 
dealt him such a blow on the nose that I 
felt the flesh, cartilage, and bone go down 
under my knuckles like a biscuit. It 
was a mark he will carry to his grave." 

These words were truth, save that 
Michael Angelo was struck with a mallet 
and not the man's hand. And it was 
for the blow that Torrigiani had to flee, 
and seemingly, with the years, he had 
gotten it into his head that he left Florence 
of his own accord, and his crime was a 
thing of which to boast. Voltaire once 
said that beyond a doubt the soldier who 



Celltnt 3^3 



thrust the spear into the side of the crbums 
Saviour went away and boasted of the 
deed. Torrigiani's name is forever linked 
with that of Michael Angelo. Thus much 
for the pride of little men who make a 
virtue of a vice. 

But the boast of Torrigiani caused 
Cellini to grow faint and sick, then to 
bum with hate. He snatched the draw- 
ing from the other's hand, and might 
have deprived Torrigiani of all the nose 
he possessed, had not better counsel pre- 
vailed. Ever after Cellini avoided the 
man — ^for the man's own good. 

That art was a passion to this stripling 
is plain. It was his meat and drink — 
with fighting for dessert. One of his near 
companions was Francisco, grandson of 
Fra Lippo Lippi, and another chum was 
Tasso, at this time a youth of nineteen — 
his own age. Tasso became a great artist. 
Vasari tells of him at length, and sketches 
his career while in the employ of Cosimo 
d' Medici. 

One day Benvenuto and Tasso were 
walking after their work was done, and 
discussing as usual the wonderful genius of 
Michael Angelo, They agreed that some 



3^4 



Xittle 5ourneps 



3Porwac5 
to IRome 



day they must go to him at Rome. They 
were near the gate of the city that led 
out on the direct road to the Eternal City. 
They passed out of the gate still talking 
earnestly. 

"Why, we are on the way now," said 
Tasso. 

''And to turn back is an ill omen — 
we will go on!" answered Benvenuto. 

So they kept on, each one saying, 
"And what will our folks say to-night?" 

By night they had travelled twenty 
miles. They stopped at an inn, and in 
the morning Tasso was so lame he declared 
he could not proceed. Benvenuto in- 
sisted, and even threatened. 

They trudged forward and in a week 
the spire of St. Peter's (the wondrous 
dome was yet to be) lifted itself out 
of the fog, and they stood speechless 
and uncovered, each devoutly crossing 
himself. 

Benvenuto had a trade, and as skilled 
men are always needed he got work at 
once. Tasso filled in the time carving 
wood. They did not see Michael Angelo 
— that worthy was too busy to receive 
callers, or indulge the society of adven- 



Cellini 



385 



turous youths. Cellini does not say much 
about this, but slips two years in a page, 
takes part in a riot and flees back to 
Florence. He enters into earnest details 
of how 'leven rogues in buckram suits 
reviled him as he passed a certain shop. 
One of them upset a handcart of brick 
upon him. He dealt the miscreant a 
blow on the ear. The police here appeared 
and as usual arrested the innocent Happy 
Hooligan of the affair. Being taken before 
the magistrates he was accused of strik- 
ing a free citizen. Cellini insisted he 
had only boxed the man's ears, but 
many witnesses in chorus averred that he 
had struck the citizen in the face with his 
clenched fist. "I onl}^ boxed his ears," 
exclaimed Cellini above the din. The 
magistrates all burst out laughing, and 
adjourned for dinner, warning Cellini to 
remain where he was until they came 
back — hoping he would run away. 

He sat there thinking over his sad lot, 
when a sudden impulse seizing him he 
darted out of the palace, and ran swiftly 
for the house of his enemies. He drew 
his knife, and rushing in among them 
where they were at dinner, upset the 



m IBo^ on 
tbe £ars 



3^6 



Xlttle 5ournei?5 



Hn mttacft 



table and yelled, "Send for a confessor, 
for none of you will ever need a doctor 
when I get through with you!" 

Several women fainted, the men sprang 
through windows, and the chief rogue 
got a slash that went straight for his 
heart. He fell down and Cellini thinking 
the man was dead, started for the street. 
At the door he was greeted by all those 
who had jumped through the windows, 
reinforced by others. They were armed 
with shovels, tongs, skillets, clubs, sticks, 
and knives. He laid about him right 
and left, but the missiles descended in 
such showers that he lost his knife and cap, 
first sending to the earth a full dozen of 
the rogues' 

Running to the house of a priest Cellini 
begged to confess the murder, and told 
of how he had only acted in self-defence. 
Being shrived, for a consideration, he 
awaited the coming of the constabulary. 
But they did not come, for the man who 
thought he had been stabbed only got a 
slash through his jacket, and no one was 
seriously hurt, excepting one of the men 
who jumped through a window and 
sprained his ankle. 



Cellini 



387 



But so unjust were the magistrates, 
that Cellini had to fly from the city or he 
would have been sentenced to the army 
and sent God knows where, to fight the 
Moors. 



jfleeing 

from tbe 

Cits 



388 



IV 



(Senius 

an& 

/IDa5ncss 



MAX NORDAU has a certain amount of 
basis for his proposition that genius 
and madness are near alHed, but it will 
hardly do, however, to assume that they are 
the same thing. Cellini at times showed a 
fine flaring up of talent that might be 
called genius — ^he could do exquisite work 
■ — yet there were other times when he 
certainly was "queer." These queer pe- 
riods might account for his occasional 
fusing of memory and imagination, and 
the lapses of recollection entirely concern- 
ing things he did not wish to remember. 
The Memoirs were begun when he was 
fifty-eight and finished when he was sixty- 
three, thus many years had elapsed since 
the doing and the recording. The con- 
stable Bourbon was killed at the siege of 
Rome : Cellini was present at the siege and 



Cellini 



389 



killed several men: therefore what more 
probable than that Cellini killed the con- 
stable? Cellini calmly records that it was 
he who did the deed. He also tells that 
he killed WilHam, Prince of Orange; in 
fact he killed at least one man a day for 
many weeks. At this distance of time 
we should be quite willing to take his 
word for it, just as we would, most cer- 
tainly, if he had told us these things 
face to face. 

In one incidental paragraph he records 
that he christened a son, and adds: ''So 
far as I can remember this was my first 
child." He drops the record there, never 
once alluding to the child's mother, nor 
what became of the child, which if it lived 
was a man grown at the time Cellini was 
writing. 

His intense hatred toward all who were 
in direct competition with him, his refer- 
ences to them as cheese-mites, beasts, 
buzzards, and brigands, his fears of poison 
and suspicions that they had " curdled his 
bronze;" his visitations by spirits and 
angels, mark him as a man who trod the 
borderland of sanity. If he did not like a 
woman or she did not like him — the same 



®n tbe 
:©orl)er= 
Ian6 of 
Sanfts 



390 



Xtttle 5ournei56 



Cellfni 
Vasati 



thing — she was a troll,wench, scullion, punk, 
trollop, or hussy. He had such a beautiful 
vocabulary of names for folks he did not 
admire, that the translator is constantly 
put to straits to produce a product that 
will not be excluded from the mails. 

If you want to know how many things 
were done when knighthood was in flower, 
you can find out here. Or should you 
be possessed of literary longings and have 
a desire to produce some such cheerful 
message for humanity as A Gentleman of 
France, Monsieur Beaucaire, or Under the 
Red Robe, you can sink your shaft in 
Cellini's book and mine enough incidents 
in an hour to make a volume, with a bi- 
product of slag for several penny shockers. 

Yet Cellini has corroborated history on 
many points, and backed up the gossipy 
Vasari in a valuable way. It is doubtful 
whether either of these gentlemen had the 
felicity of reading the other's book, unless 
there be books in Elysium — as Charles 
Lamb thought there were— but sure it is 
that they render sidelights on the times 
that are much to our profit. 

Vasari and Cellini had been close friends 
in youth, working and studying together. 



Cellini 



391 



Vasari was a poor artist and a common- 
place architect, but he seemed to have 
social qualities that bridged the gulf 
where his talent broke off short. In the 
Palazzo Vecchio are several large specimens 
of his work that must have been once 
esteemed for their own sake. Now their 
chief value lies in the fact that they are 
a Hop-Smith production, having been 
painted by a pleasing writer and a charm- 
ing gentleman, and so we point them out 
with forefinger and bated breath. 

Cellini's hate of Vasari proves, also, that 
the gossipy one stood well with the reigning 
powers, otherwise Benvenuto would not 
have thought to condemn his work and 
allude to the man as a dough-face, trickster, 
lickspittle, slanderer, vulture, vagrom, vil- 
lian, vilifier, and gnat's hind-foot. Cellini 
threatened to kill the man several times: 
he denounced him in public and used 
to call after him on the street, referring 
to him cheerfully as a deep-dyed rogue. 
Had either of these men killed the other, 
it would have been a direct loss to letters ; 
but certain it is that Vasari was much 
more of a gentleman than Cellini. That 
Vasari was judicial in his estimates of men 



3Benvenuto 

Denounces 

Vaenti 



392 



Xittle Journeys 



lln a 
Dungeon 



is shown by his references to CelHni, of 
whom he speaks as "a skilled artist, of 
active, alert, and industrious habits, who 
produced many valuable works of art, 
but who unfortunately was possessed of 
a most unpleasant temper/* Men are so 
fallible in their estimates of contemporaries 
that one man's statement that another 
is a rogue does not in the slightest change 
our views of that man. What we are, 
that we see: the epithets a man applies to 
another usually fit himself best, and this 
is the thought in mind when we read 
what Cellini says of Vasari and Bandinelli. 
These men were commonplace artists, but 
pretty good men; Cellini was a better 
artist than either, but not a desirable 
tenant for the upper fiat in your house 
if you chanced to reside below. 

Cellini was landed behind grated bars 
many times, but usually managed to 
speedily escape. However, in his thirty- 
eighth year, he found himself in a dungeon 
of Sant' Angelo, that grim fortress that 
he had fought so vigorously to defend. 

More than one homicide the Recording 
Angel had marked up against him, but 
men took small note of these things, and 



CelUnt 



393 



even Pope Paul had personally blessed 
him and granted him absolution for all 
the murders he had committed or might 
commit — this in consideration of his 
distinguished services in defence of the 
Vatican. 

The charge against him now was the 
very humdrum one of stealing treasure 
that he was supposed to guard. That 
he was innocent there is no doubt: what- 
ever the man was, he was no thief. The 
charge against him was a trumped up 
one to get him out of the way. He was 
painfully in evidence — he talked like a 
windmill, and in his swaggering he had 
become inconvenient, if not dangerous, 
to some who were close to political great- 
ness. No one caring for the job of killing 
him, they locked him up, for the good 
of himself and society. It probably 
was the intention to keep him under key 
for only a few weeks, until his choler 
would subside; but he was so saucy, 
and sent out such a stream of threats 
to all concerned, that things reached a 
point where it was unsafe to liberate 
him. 

So he was kept in the Castle for over two 



B Cbarge 

against 

Ibim 



394 



Xlttle Journeys 



TKnork 
In prison 



years, during which time he once escaped, 
broke his leg in the effort, was recaptured, 
and brought back. 

A prison is not wholly bad — ^men in 
prison often have time to study and think, 
where before such things were impossible. 
At last they are free from intrusion. 
Cellini became deeply religious — ^he read 
his Bible, and lives of the saints. Minister- 
ing angels came to him, and spirits ap- 
peared and whispered words of comfort. 
The man became softened and subdued. 
He wrote poetry, and recorded his thoughts 
on many things. In the meantime his 
accuser having died, he was given his 
liberty. He was a better and wiser man 
when he came out than when he went in, 
although one fails to find that he was ex- 
actly grateful to his captors. 

In prison he planned various statues of 
a religious order. It was in prison that 
he thought out the Perseus and Medusa. 
In prison, works like the Pieta were his 
ambition, but when freedom came the 
Perseus was uppermost in his mind. 
Every great work of art is an evolution — 
the man sees it first as a mere germ — ^it 
grows, enlarges, evolves. The Perseus of 



Cellini 



395 



Cellini was a thought that took years to 
germinate. The bloody nature of the 
man and his love of form united, and 
the world has this wonderful work of art 
that stands to-day exactly where its 
creator placed it, in the Loggia de' Lanzia 
— that beautiful out-of-door hall on the 
Piazza Signora at Florence. The naked 
man, wearing his proud helmet, one foot 
on the writhing body of the wretched 
woman, sword in right hand and in the 
left the dripping head, is a terrible picture. 
Yet so exquisite is the workmanship that 
our horror soon evaporates into admiration 
and we gaze in wonder. Probably the 
history of no great work of art has ever 
been more painstakingly presented than 
the story of the making of this statue by 
Cellini. Again and again he was on the 
point of smashing the clay to chaos, but 
each time his hand was stayed. Months 
passed, years went by, and innumerable 
difficulties were in the way of its comple- 
tion. Finally he figured out a method to 
cast it in bronze. And of its final casting 
no better taste of the man's quality can 
be given than to let him tell the story 
himself. Says Cellini : 



"Iperseus" 



396 



Xlttle Journeys 



CellfnPs 
Storie of 

bis 
*|perse«6" 



I felt convinced that when my Perseus was 
accomplished, all my trials would be turned 
to high felicity and glorious well-being. 

Accordingly I strengthened my heart, and 
with all the forces of my body and my purse, 
employing what little money still remained 
to me, I set to work. First I provided myself 
with several loads of pine wood from the 
forests of Serristori. While these were on 
their way, I clothed my Perseus with the 
clay which I had prepared many months be- 
forehand, in order that it might be duly 
seasoned. After making its clay tunic (for 
that is the term used in this art) and properly 
arming and fencing it with iron girders, I 
began to draw the wax out by means of slow 
fire. This melted and issued through numer- 
ous air- vents I had made; for the more there 
are of these, the better will the mould fill. 
When I had finished drawing off the wax, 
I constructed a funnel-shaped furnace all 
round the model of my Perseus. It was built 
of bricks, so interlaced, the one above the 
other, that numerous apertures were left for 
the fire to exhale at. Then I began to lay 
on wood by degrees, and kept it burning two 
whole days and nights. 

At length, when all the wax was gone and 
the mould was well baked, I set to work at 
digging the pit in which to sink it. This I 



Celltnt 



397 



performed with scrupulous regard to all the 
rules of art. When I had finished that part 
of my work, I raised the mould by wind- 
lasses and stout ropes to a perpendicular 
position, and suspending it with greatest 
care one cubit above the level of the furnace, 
so that it hung exactly above the middle of 
the pit, I next lowered it gently down into 
the very bottom of the furnace, and had it 
firmly placed with every possible precaution 
for its safety. When this delicate operation 
was accomplished, I began to bank it up 
with the earth I had excavated; and ever as 
the earth grew higher, I introduced its proper 
air-vents, which were little tubes of earthen- 
w^are, such as folks use for drains and such- 
like purposes. At length, I felt sure that it 
w^as admirably fixed, and that the filling- 
in of the pit and the placing of the air-vents 
had been properly performed. I also could 
see that my work people understood my 
method, which differed very considerably 
from that of all other masters in the trade. 
Feeling confident, then, that I could rely 
upon them, I next turned to my furnace, 
which I filled with numerous pigs of copper and 
other bronze stuff. The pieces were piled 
according to the laws of art, that is to say, 
so resting one upon the other that the flames 
could play freely through them, in order that 



stoves 

of bis 

"JJerseus' 



398 



Xlttle 5otttnei?0 



Cellini's 
Stors 
of bis 

'pevseus' 



the metal might heat and liquefy the sooner. 
At last I called out heartily to set the furnace 
going. The logs of pine were heaped in, 
and, what with the unctuous resin of the 
wood and the good draught I had given, my 
furnace worked so well that I was obliged 
to rush from side to side to keep it from 
going too fast. The labour was more than I 
could stand ; yet I forced myself to strain every 
nerve and muscle. To increase my anxieties, 
the workshop took fire, and we were afraid 
lest the roof should fall upon our heads; 
while from the garden such a storm of wind 
and rain kept blowing in, that it perceptibly 
cooled the furnace. 

Battling thus with all these untoward cir- 
cumstances for several hours, and exerting 
myself beyond even the measure of my 
powerful constitution, I could at last bear 
up no longer, and a sudden fever, of the 
utmost possible intensity, attacked me. I 
felt absolutely obliged to go and fling myself 
upon my bed. Sorely against my will having 
to drag myself away from the spot, I turned 
to my assistants, about ten or more in all, 
what with master-founders, hand- workers, 
country-fellows, and my own special journey- 
men among whom was Bernardino Mannellini, 
my apprentice through several years. To 
him in particular I spoke: "Look, my dear 



Cellini 



399 



Bernardino, that you observe the rules which 
I have taught you; do your best with all 
despatch, for the metal will soon be fused. 
You cannot go wrong ; these honest men will 
get the channels ready; you will easily be 
able to drive back the two plugs with this 
pair of iron crooks ; and I am sure that mould 
will fill miraculously. I feel more ill than 
I ever did in all my life, and verily believe 
that it will kill me before a few hours are 
over." Thus with despair at heart, I left 
them, and betook myself to bed. 

No sooner had I got to bed, than I ordered 
my serving-maids to carry food and wine for 
all the men into the workshop; at the same 
time I cried : " I shall not be alive to-morrow ! " 
They tried to encourage me, arguing that my 
illness would pass over, since it came from 
excessive fatigue. In this way I spent two 
hours battling with the fever, which steadily 
increased, and calHng out continually: **I feel 
that I am dying." My housekeeper, who 
was named Mona Fiore da Castel del Rio, 
a very notable manager and no less warm- 
hearted, kept chiding me for my discourage- 
ment, but, on the other hand, she paid me every 
kind attention which was possible. However, 
the sight of my physical pain and moral 
dejection so affected her, that, in spite of 
that brave heart of hers, she could not refrain 



CcIUnf's 

Stors 

of bis 
**8>erseu6' 



400 



Xtttle Sourness 



Cellini's 
Stors 
of bis 

♦iperseus*' 



from shedding tears; and yet, so far as she 
was able, she took good care I should not 
see them. While I was thus terribly afflicted, 
I beheld the figure of a man enter my cham- 
ber, twisted in his body into the form of a 
capital S. He raised a lamentable, doleful 
voice, like one who announces his last hour 
to men condemned to die upon the scaffold, 
and spoke these words: *'0 Benvenuto! your 
statue is spoiled, and there is no hope what- 
ever of saving it!" No sooner had I heard 
the shriek of that wretch than I gave a howl 
which might have been heard in hell. Jump- 
ing from my bed, I seized my clothes and 
began to dress. The maids, and my lad, 
and every one who came around to help me, 
got kicks or blows of the fist, while I kept 
crying out in lamentation: "Ah! traitors! 
enviers! This is an act of treason, done by 
malice prepense! But I swear by God that 
I will sift it to the bottom, and before I die 
will leave such witness to the world of what 
I can do as shall make a score of mortals 
marvel." 

When I got my clothes on, I strode with 
soul bent on mischief toward the workshop; 
there I beheld the men, whom I had left 
erewhile in such high spirits, standing stupe- 
fied and downcast. I began at once and 
spoke: '*Up with you! Attend to me! Since 



Cellini 



40 T 



you have not been able or willing to obey 
the directions I gave you, obey me now that 
I am with you to conduct my work in person. 
Let no one contradict me, for in cases like 
this we need aid of the hand and hearing, 
not of advice." When I had uttered these 
words, a certain Maestro Alessandro broke 
silence and said: "Look you, Benvenuto, you 
are going to attempt an enterprise which the 
laws of art do not sanction, and which can- 
not succeed." I turned upon him with such 
fury that he and all the rest of them exclaimed 
with one voice: *'0h then! Give orders! We 
will obey your least commands, so long as 
life is left to us." I believe they spoke thus 
feelingly because they thought I must fall 
shortly dead upon the ground. I went 
immediately to inspect the furnace, and 
found that the metal was all curdled ; an ac- 
cident which we expressed by being "caked." 
I told two of the hands to cross the road, 
and fetch from the house of the butcher 
Capretta a load of young oak-wood, which 
had lain dry for above a year. So soon as 
the first armfuls arrived, I began to fill the 
grate beneath the furnace. Now oak-wood 
of that kind heats more powerfully than any 
other sort of tree; and for this reason, where 
a slow fire is wanted, as in the case of gun- 
foundry, alder or pine is preferred. Accord- 



Cellfni's 
of bis 



402 



Xtttle 5ourne^s 



CelUnf's 

of bis 
'IPereeus' 



ingly, when the logs took fire, oh! how the 
cake began to stir beneath that awful heat, 
to glow and sparkle in a blaze ! At the same 
time I kept stirring up the channels, and 
sent men upon the roof to stop the conflagra- 
tion, which had gathered force from the in- 
creased combustion in the furnace; also I 
caused boards, carpets, and other hangings to 
be set up against the garden, in order to 
protect us from the violence of the rain. 

When I had thus provided against these 
several disasters, I roared out first to one man 
and then to another: * 'Bring this thing here! 
Take that thing there!" At this crisis, when 
the whole gang saw the cake was on the 
point of melting, they did my bidding, 
each fellow working with the strength of 
three. I then ordered half a pig of pewter 
to be brought, which weighed about sixty 
pounds, and flung it into the middle of the 
cake inside the furnace. By this means, 
and by piling on wood and stirring now with 
pokers and now with iron rods, the curdling 
mass rapidly began to liquefy. Then, know- 
ing I had brought the dead to life again, 
against the firm opinion of those ignoramuses, 
I felt such vigour fill my veins, that all those 
pains of fever, all those fears of death, were 
quite forgotten. 

All of a sudden an explosion took place, 



Celltnt 



403 



attended by a tremendous flash of flame, as 
though a thunderbolt had formed and been 
discharged amongst us. Unwonted and ap- 
palHng terror astonished every one, and me 
more even than the rest. When the din was 
over and the dazzling light extinguished, 
we began to look each other in the face. 
Then I discovered that the cap of the furnace 
had blown up, and the bronze was bubbling 
over from its source beneath. So I had 
the mouths of my mould immediately opened, 
and at the same time drove in the two plugs 
which kept the molten metal. But I noticed 
that it did not flow as rapidly as usual, the 
reason being probably that the fierce heat 
of the fire we kindled had consumed its base 
alloy. Accordingly I sent for all my pewter 
platters, porringers, and dishes, to the number 
of some two hundred pieces, and had a portion 
of them cast, one by one, into the channels, 
the rest into the furnace. This expedient 
succeeded, and every one could now perceive 
that my bronze was in most perfect lique- 
faction, and my mould was filling; where- 
upon they all with heartiness and happy 
cheer assisted and obeyed my bidding, while 
I, now here, now there, gave orders, helped 
with my own hands, and cried aloud: "O 
God! Thou that by Thy immeasurable power 
didst rise from the dead, and in Thy glory 



CelUnCs 

of bis 
**lpetseus'* 



404 



Xtttle Sourness 



CcHinVs 

of bis 
'Perseus' 



didst ascend to heaven ! " . . . even thus 
in a moment my mould was filled ; and seeing 
my work finished, I fell upon my knees, and 
with all my heart gave thanks to God. 

After all was over, I turned to a plate of 
salad on a bench there, and ate with hearty 
appetite, and drank together with the whole 
crew. Afterwards I retired to bed, healthy 
and happy, for it was now two hours before 
morning, and slept as sweetly as though I had 
never felt the touch of illness. My good 
housekeeper, without my giving orders, had 
prepared a fat capon for my repast. So 
that, when I rose, about the hour for break- 
ing fast, she presented herself with a smiling 
countenance, and said: "Oh! is that the man 
who felt that he was dying? Upon my word, 
I think the blows and kicks you dealt us last 
night, when you were so enraged, and had 
that demon in your body as it seemed, must 
have frightened away your mortal fever!" 
All my poor household, relieved in like meas- 
ure from anxiety and overwhelming labour, 
went at once to buy earthen vessels in order 
to replace the pewter I had cast away. 
Then we dined together joyfully; nay, I 
cannot remember a day in my whole life 
when I dined with greater gladness or a 
better appetite. 



405 



FORMS change,but nothing dies. Every- dciunve 
thing is in circulation. Men as well as 
planets, have their orbits. Some have a 
wider swing than others, but just wait and 
they will come back. Not only do chickens 
come home to roost, but so does every- 
thing else. The place of Cellini's birth 
was also the place of his death. The 
limit of his stay in one place, at one time, 
it seems, was about two years. The man 
was a sort of human anachronism — he 
had in his heart all the beauty and 
passion of the Renaissance, and carried, 
too, the savagery and density of the dark 
ages. That his skill as a designer and 
artificer in the fine metals saved him 
from death again and again, there is no 
doubt. Princes, cardinals, popes, dukes, 
and priests protected him simply because 



4o6 



%ittlc 5ottrneps 



flOeKes he could serve them. He designed altars, 
caskets, bracelets, vases, girdles, clasps, 
medals, rings, coins, buttons, seals — a 
tiara for the Pope, a diadem for an emperor. 
With minute and exquisite things he 
was at his best. The final proof that 
he was human and his name frailty lies in 
the fact that he was a busybody. 

As he worked he always knew what 
others about him were doing. If they 
were poor workmen, he encouraged them 
in a friendly way; if they were beyond 
him and out of his class, like Michael 
Angelo, he was subservient; but if they 
were on his plane he hated them with a 
hatred that was passing speech. There 
was usually art and a woman hopelessly 
mixed in his melees. In his migrations he 
swung between Florence, Pisa, Mantua, 
and Rome, and clear to France when 
necessary. When he arrived in a town 
he would soon become a favourite with 
other skilled workers. Naturally he would 
be introduced to their lady friends. These 
ladies were usually "complaisant," to use 
his own phrase. Soon he would be on 
very good terms with one or more of 
them; then would come jealousies; he 



Cellini 



407 



would tire of the lady, or she of him more 
probably ; then if she took up with a gold- 
smith Benvenuto w^ould hate the pair with 
a beautiful hatred. He would be sure that 
they were plotting to undo him: he would 
listen to their remarks, lie in wait for 
them, watch their actions, quietly question 
their friends. Then suddenly some dark 
night he would spring upon them from 
behind a comer and cry, "You are all 
dead folk!" And sometimes they were. 

Then Cellini would fly without leaving 
orders where to forward his mail. Getting 
into another principality, he was com- 
paratively safe — the place he left was glad 
to get rid of him, and the new princeling 
w^ho had taken him up was pleased to 
secure his skill. Under the new environ- 
ment, with all troubles behind, he would 
begin a clean balance sheet, full of zest 
and animation. 

The human heart does not change. 
Every employing printer, lithographer, 
and newspaper publisher knows this erratic, 
brilliant, artistic, and troublesome man. 
He does good service for just so long, 
then the environment begins to pall upon 
him: he grows restless, suspicious, uncer- 



mew 

ISBeginnlngs 



408 



Xlttle Sourness 



Succe00 

in a jf cw 

Ubfngs 



tain. He is looking for a chance to bolt. 
Strong drink comes in to hasten the ruction. 
There is a strike, a fight, an explosion, 
and our artistic tramp finds himself on 
the sidewalk. 

He goes away damning everybody. In 
two years, or less, he comes back, penitent. 
Old scores are forgotten, several of the 
enemy are dead, other have passed on 
into circulation, and the artistic roustabout 
is given a desk or case. 

Cellini's book is immensely interesting 
for various reasons, not the least of which 
is that he pictures, indirectly, that rest- 
lessness and nostalgia which only the 
grave can cure. And at the last our con- 
demnation is swallowed up in pity, and 
we can only think kindly of one who suc- 
ceeded in a few things, and like the rest 
of us, failed in many. 



JAMES MAC NEILL WHISTLER 



40Q 



411 



Art happens — no hovel is safe from it, no Prince 
may depend upon it, the vastest intelligence cannot 
bring it about, and puny efforts to make it universal 
end in quaint comedy, and coarse farce. 



Hrt 
fsappens 



The Ten O'clock Lecture. 



413 



THE Eternal Paradox of Things is re- 
vealed in the fact that the men who 
have toiled most for peace, beauty, and har- 
mony have usually lived out their days in 
discord; and in several instances died a 
malefactor's death. Just how much dis- 
cord is required in God's formula for a 
successful life, no one knows, but it 
must have a use, for it is always there. 

Seen from a distance, out of the range 
of the wordy shrapnel, the literary 
scrimmage is amusing. Gulliver's Trav- 
els made many a heart ache, but it 
only gladdens ours. Pope's Dunciad 
sent shivers of fear down the spine of 
all artistic England, but we read it for the 
rhyme, and insomnia. Byron's English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers, gave back 
to the critics what they had given out — 



Scrimmage 



414 



Xlttle Sourness 



Sbarpr 
Sbooting 



to their great surprise and indignation, 
and our amusement. Keats died from 
the stab of a pen, they say, and whether 
'twas true or not we know that now a 
suit of Cheviot is sufficient shield. "We 
love him for the enemies he has made" — 
to have friends is a great gain, but to 
achieve an enemy is distinction. 

Ruskin's Modern Painters is a reply 
to the contumely that sought to smother 
Turner under an avalanche of abuse; 
but since the enemy inspired it, and it 
made the name and fame of both Ruskin 
and Turner, why should they not hunt out 
the rogues in Elysium and purchase am- 
brosia ? 

Whistler's The Gentle Art of Making 
Enemies is a bit of sharp-shooter snipping 
at the man who was brave enough to 
come to the rescue of Turner, and who 
afterward proved his humanity by adopt- 
ing the tactics of the enemy, working the 
literary stink-pot to repel impressionistic 
boarders. 

No friend could have done for Whistler 
what Ruskin did. Before Ruskin threw 
an ink-bottle at him, as Martin Luther 
did at the Devil, he was one of sev- 



XKIlbtstler 



415 



eral; after the bout he was as one set 
apart. 

When we think of Whistler, if we Hsten 
closely, we can hear the echo of shrill calls 
of recrimination, muffled reveilles of alarm 
— pamphlet answering unto pamphlet 
across seas of misunderstanding — vitupera- 
tions manifold and recurring themes of 
rabid ribaldry all forming a lurid Sym- 
phony in Red. 



fn 1Rc& 



4i6 



Bievuvaqci 
ment 



II 

TOHN DAVIDSON has dedicated a book 
^ to his enemy, thus : 

Unwilling Friend, let not thy spite abate, 
Help me with scorn, and strengthen me with 
hate. 

The general tendency to berate the 
man of superior talent would seem to 
indicate, as before suggested, that dis- 
paragement has some sort of compensation 
in it. Possibly it is the governor that 
keeps things from going too fast — ^the 
opposition of forces that holds the balance 
true. But almost everything can be over- 
done; and the fact remains that without 
encouragement and faith from without, 
the stoutest heart will in time grow faint 
and doubt itself. It hears the yelping 
of the pack, and there creeps in the ques- 



Mbtstler 



417 



tion, "What if they are right?" Then 
comes the longing and the necessity for 
the word of praise, the clasp of a kindly 
hand and the look that reassures. 

Occasionally the undiscerning make re- 
marks, slightly touched with muriatic 
acid, concerning the ancient and honour- 
able cult known as the Mutual Admira- 
tion Society. My firm belief is, that no 
man ever did or can do a great work alone 
— he must be backed up by the Mutual 
Admiration Society. It may be a very 
small Society — in truth, I have known 
chapters where there were only two 
members, but there was such trust, such 
faith, such a mutual uplift, that an at- 
mosphere was formed wherein great work 
was done. 

In Galilee even the Son of God could 
do no great work, on account of the un- 
belief of the people. ''Fellowship is 
heaven and lack of fellowship is hell," 
said William Morris. And he had known 
both. 

Some one must believe in you. And 
through touching finger-tips with this 
Some One, we may get in the circuit, and 
thus reach out to all. Self -Reliance is 



ilDutual 

H&miras 

tfon Sos 

cfets 



4i8 



Xlttle 5ourne^6 



Xove^ into 
Xife 



very excellent, but as for independence, 
there is no such thing. We are a part 
of the great Universal Life; and as one 
must win approval from himself, so he 
must receive corroboration from others: 
having this approval from the Elect Few, 
the opinions of the many matter little. 

How little we know of the aspirations 
that wither unexpressed, and of the hopes 
that perish for the want of the right word 
spoken at the right time! Out in the 
orchard, as I write, I see thousands and 
thousands of beautiful blossoms that will 
never become fruit for lack of vitalisa- 
tion — they die because they are alone. 

Thoughts materialise into deeds only 
when Some One vitalises by approval. 
Every good thing is loved into life. 

Great men have ever come in groups, 
and the Mutual Admiration Society al- 
ways figures largely. To enumerate in- 
stances would be to inflict good folks with 
triteness and truism. I do not wish to 
rob my reader of his rights — think it out 
for yourself, beginning with Concord and 
Cambridge, working backward a-down 
the centuries. 



Ill 



419 



THERE are two Whistlers. One tender 
as a woman, sensitive as a child, — 
thirsting for love, friendship, and apprecia- 
tion — a dreamer of dreams, seeing visions 
and mounting to the heavens on the wings 
of his soaring fancy. This is the real Whis t- 
ler. And there has always been a small 
Mutual Admiration Society that has ap- 
preciated, applauded, and loved this Whist- 
ler; to them he has always been "Jimmy." 
The other Whistler is the jaunty little 
man in the funny, straight brimmed high 
hat — cousin to the hat John D. Long wore 
for twenty years. This man in the long 
black coat, carrying a bamboo wand, who 
adjusts his monocle and throws off an 
epigram, who confounds the critics, befogs 
the lawyers, affronts millionaires from 
Colorado, and plays pitch and toss with 



"cmbfstiets 



420 



Xittle 3ournei?s 



Brtfstfc 
Jacques 



words, is the Whistler known to news- 
paperdom. And Grub Street calls him 
*' Jimmy," too, but the voice of Grub 
Street is guttural and in it is no tender 
cadence — it is tone that tells, not the 
mere word: I have been addressed by an 
endearing phrase when the words stabbed. 
Grub Street sees only the one man and 
goes straightway after him with a snicker- 
snee. To use the language of Judge Gaynor, 
''This artistic Jacques of the second part 
protects the great and tender soul of the 
party of the first part." 

That is it — his name is Jacques : Whistler 
is a fool. The fools were the wisest men 
at court. Shakespeare^ who dearly loved 
a fool, belonging to the breed himself, 
placed his wisest sayings into the mouths 
of men who wore the motley. When he 
adorned a man with cap and bells, it was 
as though he had given bonds for both that 
man's humanity and intelligence. 

Neither Shakespeare nor any other 
writer of good books ever dared depart 
so violently from truth as to picture a fool 
whose heart was filled with pretence and 
perfidy. The fool is not malicious. Stu- 
pid people may think he is, because his 



Mbistlet 421 



language is charged with the Hghtning's capan& 
flash, but these be the people who do not 
know the difference between an incubator 
and an egg plant. 

Touchstone, with unfailing loyalty, fol- 
lows his master with quip and quirk into 
exile. When all, even his daughters, had 
forsaken King Lear, the fool bares himself 
to the storm and covers the shaking old 
man with his own cloak, and when in our 
day we meet the avatars of Trinculo, 
Costard, Mercutio, and Jacques, we find 
they are men of tender susceptibilities, 
generous hearts, and lavish soul. 

Whistler shakes his cap, flourishes his 
bauble, tosses that fine head, and with 
tongue in cheek, asks questions and pro- 
pounds conundrums that pedantry can 
never answer. Hence the ink-bottle, with 
its mark on the walls at Eisenach, and at 
Coniston. 



422 



IV 






EVERY man of worth is two men— 
sometimes many. In fact, Dr. George 
Vincent, the psychologist, says, " We never 
treat two persons in exactly the same 
manner/' If this is so, and I suspect it is, 
the person we are with dictates our mental 
process and thus controls our manners — 
he calls out the man he wishes to see. 
Certain sides of our nature are revealed 
only to certain persons. And I can under- 
stand, too, how there can be a Holy of 
Holies, closed and barred forever against all 
except the One. And in the absence of this 
One, I can also understand how the person 
can go through life, and father, mother, 
brothers, sisters, friends, and companions 
never guess the latent excellence that 
lies concealed. We defend and protect 
this Holy of Holies from the vulgar gaze. 



Mbistler 423 



There are two ways to guard and keep iPosc 
alive the sacred fires ; one is to flee to con- 
vent, monastery, or mountain, and there 
live alone with God; the other is to mix 
and mingle with men and wear a coat of 
mail in way of manner. 

Women whose hearts are well nigh 
bursting with grief will often be the 
gayest of the gay; men whose souls are 
corroding with care — weighted down with 
sorrow too great for speech — are often 
those who set the table in a roar. 

The assumed manner, continued, evolves 
into a pose. Pose means position, and the 
pose is usually a position of defence. 

All great people are posers. 

Men pose so as to keep the mob back 
while they can do their work. Without 
the pose, the garden of a poet's fancy 
would look like McKinley's front yard at 
Canton in the fall of '96. That is to say, 
without the pose the poet would have no 
garden, no fancy, no nothing — and there 
would be no poet. Yet I am quite willing 
to admit that a man might assume a pose 
and yet have nothing to protect; but I 
stoutly maintain that pose in such an one 
is transparent to every one as the poles 



424 



Xlttle Journeys 



Soul 
•Kevealeb 
in TKIlorfe 



that support a scare-crow, simply because 
the pose never becomes habitual. 

With the great man pose becomes a 
habit — and then it is not a pose. When a 
man lies and admits he lies, he tells the 
truth. 

Whistler has been called the greatest 
poser of his day; and yet he is the most 
sincere and truthful of men — the very 
antithesis of hypocrisy and sham. No 
man ever hated pretence more. 

Whistler is an artist, and the soul of the 
man is revealed in his work — not in his 
hat, nor yet his bamboo cane, nor his 
long black coat, much less the language 
which he uses, Talleyrand-like, to conceal 
his thought. Art has been his wife, his 
children, and his religion. Art has said 
to him, "Thou shalt have no other gods be- 
fore me," and he has obeyed the mandate. 

That picture of his mother in the Luxem- 
bourg is the most serious thing in the whole 
collection — so gentle, so modest, so charged 
with tenderness. It is classed by the most 
competent critics of to-day along with the 
greatest works of the old masters. We 
find upon the official roster of the fine arts 
of France, opposite the name of Whistler, 



MF3tstler 



425 



this tribute : " Portrait of the mother of the 
author, a masterpiece destined for the 
eternal admiration of future generations, 
combining in its tone power and magnifi- 
cence, the qualities of a Rembrandt, a 
Titian, a Velasquez." The picture does 
not challenge you — you have to hunt it 
out, and you have to bring something to 
it, else 'twill not reveal itself. There is 
no decrepitude in the woman's face and 
form, but someway you read into the 
picture the story of a great and tender 
love and a long life of useful effort. And 
now as the evening shadows gather, about 
to fade off into gloom, the old mother sits 
there alone, poised, serene: husband gone, 
children gone — her work is done. Twi- 
light comes. She thinks of the past in 
gratitude, and gazes wistfully out into 
the future, unafraid. It is the tribute that 
every well-born son would like to pay to 
the mother who loved him into being, 
whose body nourished him, whose loving 
arms sustained him, whose unfaltering 
faith and appreciation encouraged him 
to do and to become. She was his wisest 
critic, his best friend — his mother! 



B UcCbute 



426 



TOUbistler 



MAJOR GEORGE WASHINGTON 
WHISTLER, the father of Whistler 
the artist, was a graduate of West Point, 
and a member of the United States Corps 
of Engineers. He was an active, practical, 
and useful man — a skillful draughtsman, 
mathematician, and a man of affairs who 
could undertake a difficult task and carry 
it through to completion. 

Such men are always needed, in the 
army and out of it. Responsibility gravi- 
tates to the man who can shoulder it. 
Such men as Major Whistler are not tied 
to a post — they go where they are needed. 

When George Washington Whistler was 
a cadet at West Point, there came to visit 
the place Dr. Swift and his beautiful young 
daughter, Mary. She took the Military 
School by storm, at least, held captives the 



Mbtstler 427 



hearts of all the young men there — so thev ^t)e 

•1 Ai- 111 ^r' /Major's 

said. And m very truth the heart or one seconb 



young man was prisoner, for Major Whist- 
ler married Miss Swift soon after. 

To themi were born Deborah, the Major's 
only daughter, who married Dr. Seymour 
Hayden of London, a famous surgeon and 
still more famous etcher; George, who 
became an engineer and railway manager; 
and two years later, Joseph. 

And when Joe was two years old, this 
beautiful wife, aged twenty-three, passed 
away, and young Major Whistler and his 
three babies were left alone. 

At West Point Whistler had a friend 
named McNeill, son of Dr. C. D. McNeill, 
of Wilmington, N. C. — a classmate — with 
whom he had been closely associated since 
graduation. McNeill had a sister, Anna 
Matilda, a great soul, serious and strong. 
At length Whistler took his motherless 
brood — including himself — to her and she 
accepted them all. I bow my head to the 
step-mother who loves into manhood and 
womanhood children whom another has 
loved into life. She must have a great 
heart already expanded by love to do this. 
Naturally the mother-love grows with the 



TKatfe 



428 



Xtttle Journeys 



B Small 
:fi3ab^ 



child — that is what children are for, to 
enlarge the souls of the parents. But at 
the beginning of womanhood, Anna Ma- 
tilda McNeill was great enough to enfold 
in her heart and arms the children of the 
man she loved and make them hers. 

In the year 1834, Major Whistler and 
his wife were living in Lowell, Massachu- 
setts, where the Major was superintending 
the construction of the first of those 
wonderful waterways that tirelessly turn 
ten thousand spindles. 

And fate would have it so, that here at 
Lowell, in a little house on Worthing 
Street, was born the first of the five sons 
of Major Whistler and his wife, Anna 
Matilda. And they called the name of the 
child James Abbott McNeill Whistler — 
an awful big name for a very small baby. 

About the time this peevish little pigmy 
was put into short dresses, his father re- 
signed his position in the United States 
Army to accept a like position with the 
Czar of Russia. The first railroad con- 
structed in Russia, from Moscow to St. 
Petersburg, was built under the superin- 
tendence of Major Whistler, who also 
designed various bridges, viaducts, tun- 



raiblstlet 429 



nels, and other engineering feats for Adam Hmcrica' 
Zad, who walks like a man, and who paid 
him princely sums for his services. 

Americans not only fill the teeth of 
royalty, but we furnish the Old World 
machinery, ideas, and men. For every 
twenty-five thousand men they supply us, 
we send them back one, and the one we 
send them is worth more than the twenty- 
five thousand they send us. Schenectady 
is to-day furnishing the engines and supply- 
ing engineers to teach engineers for the 
transcontinental Siberian railway. When 
you take ''The Flying Scotchman" from 
London to Edinburgh you ride in a Pull- 
man car, with all the appurtenances, even 
to a Gould coupler, a Westinghouse air- 
brake, and a dusky George from North 
Carolina, who will hit you three times with 
the butt of a brush broom and expect 
a bob as recompense. You feel quite at 
home. 

Then when you see that the Metropolitan 
Railway of London is managed by a man 
from Chicago, and that all trains of ''the 
underground" are being equipped with 
the Edison incandescent light; and you 
note further that a New York man has 



430 



Xittle Journeys 



mo cb«6= 
boo'b 



morganised the trans-Atlantic steamship 
lines, you agree with Mr. William T. Stead 
that, " America may be raw and crude, but 
she is producing a race of men — men of 
power, who can think and act." 

Coupled with the Englishman's remark- 
able book, "The Americanisation of the 
World," there is an art criticism by Bernard 
Shaw, who comes from a race that will 
not pay rent, strangely enough living in 
London, content, with no political as- 
pirations, who says, "The three greatest 
painters of the time are of American parent- 
age — Abbey, Sargent, and Whistler; and 
of these. Whistler has had greater in- 
fluence on the artists of to-day than any 
man of his time." 

But let us swing back and take a look 
at the Whistlers in Russia. Little Jimmy 
never had a childhood ; the nearest he came 
to it was when his parents camped one 
summer with the "construction gang." 
That summer with the workers and toilers, 
among the horses, living out of doors — 
eating at the campfire and sleeping under 
the sky — -was the boy's one glimpse of 
paradise. " My amibtion then was to be 
the foreman of a construction gang — and 



Mbistler 



431 



it is yet," said the artist in describing that 
brief, happy time to a friend. 

The child of well-to-do parents, but 
homeless, living in hotels and boarding- 
houses, is awfully handicapped. Children 
are only little animals and travel is their 
bane and scourge. They belong on the 
ground, among the leaves and flowers and 
tall grass — in the trees or digging in sand- 
piles. Hotel hallways, table d'hote dinners 
and the clash of travel, are all terrible 
per^^ersions of nature's intent. 

Yet the boy survived — eager, nervous, 
energetic. He acquired the Russian lan- 
guage, of course, and then he learned to 
speak French as all good Russians must. 
"He speaks French like a Russ," is the 
highest compliment a Parisian can pay you. 

The boy's mother was his tutor, com- 
panion, playmate. They read together, 
drew pictures together, and played the 
piano, four hands. 

Honours came to the hard-working 
engineer- — decorations, ribbons, medals, 
money — and more work. The poor man 
was worked to death. The Czar paid 
every honour to the living and dead that 
royalty can give. He ordered his private 



Hn IRussia 



432 



Xlttle Journeps 



Bt "CClest 
point 



carriage to take the family to the boat 
as they left St. Petersburg, taking with 
them the body of the loved one. And 
honours awaited the dead here. A monu- 
ment in the cemetery at Stonington, Con- 
necticut, erected by the Society of American 
Engineers, marks the spot where he sleeps. 

The stricken mother was back in Amer- 
ica, and James was duly entered at West 
Point. The mother's ideal was her hus- 
band — in his life she had lived and moved 
— and that James should do what he had 
done, become the manly man that he had 
become, was her highest wish. ' 

The boy was already an acceptable 
draughtsman, and under the tutelage of 
Professor Robert Weir he made progress. 
West Point does not teach such a soft and 
feminine thing as picture painting — it 
draws plans of redoubts and fortifications, 
makes maps and figures on desirability 
of tunnels, pontoons, and hidden mines. 
Robert Weir taught all these things, and 
on Saturdays painted pictures for his own 
amusement. In the rotunda of the Cap- 
itol at Washington is a taste of his quality, 
the large panel entitled ''The Departure 
of the Pilgrims." 



mblBtler 



433 



Tradition has it that young Whistler 
assisted his tocher on this work. 

Weir succeeded in getting his pupil 
heartily sick of the idea of grim-visaged 
^Yar as a business. He hated the thought 
of doing things on order, especially killing 
men when told. "The soldier's profes- 
sion is only one remove from the business 
of Jack Ketch who hangs men and then 
salves his conscience with the plea that 
some one told him to do it," said Whistler. 
If he remained at West Point he would 
become an army ofBcer and Uncle Sam 
or the Czar would own him and order him 
to do things. 

Weir declared he was absurd, but the 
Post Surgeon said he was nervous and 
needed a change. In truth West Point 
disliked Jimmy as much as he disliked 
West Point, and he was recommended for 
discharge. Mother and son sailed away 
for London, intending to come back in 
time for the next term. 

The young man took one souvenir 
from West Point that was to stand by him. 
In a sham battle, during a charge, his horse 
went down, and the cavalcade behind 
went right over horse and rider. When 



B 

Souvenir 



434 



Xlttle 5ourneps 



Hn 2.ont)on 



picked up and carried out of the scrim- 
mage, Cadet Whistler was unconscious, 
and the doctors said his skull was frac- 
tured. However, his whip-cord vitality 
showed itself in a quick recovery; but a 
white lock of hair soon appeared to mark 
the injured spot, to be a badge of distinc- 
tion and a delight to the caricaturist 
forever. In London the mother and son 
found lodgings out towards Chelsea. No 
doubt the literary traditions attracted 
them. Only a few squares away lived 
Rossetti, with a wonderful collection of 
blue china, giving lessons in painting. 
There were weekly receptions in his house, 
where came Burne- Jones, William Morris, 
Madox Brown, and many other excellent 
people. Down a narrow street near by, 
lived a grumpy Scotchman, by the name 
of Carlyle, whose portrait Whistler was 
later to paint, and although Carlyle had 
no use for Rossetti, yet Mrs. Whistler and 
her boy liked them both. It came time 
to return to America if the young man was 
to graduate at West Point. But they 
decided to go over to Paris so James could 
study art for a few months. 

They never came back to America. 



VI 



455 



WHISTLER, the coxcomb, had Ruskin 
haled before the tribunal and de- 
manded a thousand pounds as salve for his 
injured feelings because the author of Stones 
of Venice, was colour-blind, lacking in 
imagination, and possessed of a small 
magazine wherein he briskly told of men, 
women, and things he did not especially 
admire. 

The case was tried, and the jury decided 
for Whistler, giving him one farthing 
damages. But this was success — it threw 
the costs on Ruskin, and called the atten- 
tion of the world to the absurdity of con- 
demning things that are, at the last, a mere 
matter of individual taste. 

Whistler was once asked by a fellow- 
artist to criticise a wondrous chromatic 
combination that the man had thrown off 



TSIlbfetler 

ant> 
IRusftin 



43^ 



Xtttle 5ourneps 



TOlbistler 

and 
IRusIsin 



in an idle hour. Jimmy adjusted his 
monocle and gazed long. ''And what 
do you think of it?" asked the painter 
standing by. ''Eh, just a little more 
green, a little more green — (pause and 
slight cough) — but that is your affair." 

Whistler painted the Nocturne, and 
that was his affair. If Ruskin did not 
think it beautiful that was his affair; but 
when Ruskin went one step further and 
accused the painter of trying to hoodwink 
the world for a matter of guineas, attacking 
the man's motives, he exceeded the legiti- 
mate limits of criticism, and his public 
rebuke was deserved. In matter of strict- 
est justice, however, it may be as well to 
say that Whistler was quite as blind to the 
beauty of Ruskin's efforts for the better- 
ment of humanity as Ruskin was to the 
excellence of Whistler's pictures. And if 
Ruskin had been in the humour for litiga- 
tion he might have sued Whistler and got 
a shilling damages because Whistler once 
averred "The Society of St. George is a 
scheme for badgering the unfortunate, and 
should be put down by the police. God 
knows the poor suffer enough without 
being patronised 1" 



Mbtstler 



437 



Mr. Whistler was once summoned as a 
witness in a certain suit where the purchaser 
of a picture had refused to pay for it. 
The cross-examination ran something like 
this: 

"You are a painter of pictures?" 

"Yes." 

"And you know the value of pictures?" 

"Oh, no." 

" At least you have your own ideas about 
values?" 

"Certainly." 

"And you recommended the defendant 
to buy this picture for two hundred 
pounds?" 

"I did." 

"Mr. Whistler, it is reported that you 
received a goodly sum for this recommenda- 
tion — is there an3rthing in that?" 

"Oh, nothing I assure you" — (yawn- 
ing) "nothing but the indelicacy of the 
suggestion." 

The critics found much joy, several years 
ago, in tracing out the fact that Whistler 
spent a year at Madrid copying Velasquez. 
That he, like Sargent, has been benefited 
and inspired by the sublime art of the 
Spaniard there is no doubt, but there is 



Cro00 jSx= 
aminatfon 



438 



Xtttle Journeys 



•ffl (Breat 
%c3eon 



nothing in the charge that he is an imitator 
of Velasquez, save the indelicacy of the 
suggestion. 

It was a comparison of Velasquez and 
Whistler and a warm assurance that his 
name would live with that of the great 
Spaniard that led Whistler to launch that 
little question, now a classic, "Why drag 
in Velasquez?" 

The great lesson that Whistler has 
taught the world is to observe; and this 
he got from the Japanese. Lafcadio Hearn 
has said that the average citizen of Japan 
detects tints and shades that are absolutely 
unseen by Western eyes. Livingstone found 
tribes in Africa that had never seen pic- 
tures of any kind, and he had great diffi- 
culty in making them perceive that the 
figure of a man, drawn on a piece of 
paper a foot square, really was designed 
for a man. 

"Man big — paper little — no good!" was 
the criticism of a chief. The chief wanted 
to hear the voice of the man before he 
would believe it was meant for a man. 
This savage chief was a great person, no 
doubt, in his own bailiwick, but he lacked 
imagination to bridge the gap between a 



Mblstler 439 



real man and the repeated strokes of a ^roan's 
pencil on a bit or paper. tt^ns 

The Japanese — any Japanese — would 
have been delighted by Whistler's Noc- 
turne. Ruskin wasn't. He had never 
seen the night, and therefore, he declared 
that Whistler had "flung a pot of paint 
in the face of the public." 

That men should dogmatise concerning 
things where the senses alone supply the 
evidence, is only another proof of man's 
limitations. We live in a peewee world 
which our senses create and declare that 
outside of what we see, smell, taste, and 
hear there is nothing. 

It is twenty-five thousand miles around 
the world — stellar space is uncomputable ; 
and man can walk in a day about thirty 
miles. Above the ground he can jump 
about four feet. In a city his unaided ear 
can hear his friend call about two hundred 
feet. As for smell, he really has almost 
lost the sense; and taste, through the use 
of stimulants and condiments, has like- 
wise nearly gone. Man can see and recog- 
nise another man a quarter of a mile 
away, but at the same distance is prac- 
tically colour-blind. 



440 



Xtttle 5ourneps 



xrbe IDital 
'G;btng 



Yet we were all quite willing to set our- 
selves up as standards until science came 
with spectroscope, telephone, microscope, 
and Roentgen ray to force upon us that 
fact that we are tiny, undeveloped, and 
insignificant creatures, with sense quite 
untrustworthy and totally unfit for final 
decisions. 

Whistler sees more than other men. 
He has taught us to observe, and he has 
taught the art world to select. 

Oratory does not consist in telling it all 
— you select the truth you wish to drive 
home; in literature, in order to make 
your point, you must leave things out; 
and in painting you must omit. Selection 
is the vital thing. 

The Japanese see one single lily stalk 
swaying in the breeze and the hazy, 
luminous gray of the atmosphere in 
which it is bathed — just these two things. 
They give us these, and we are amazed and 
delighted. 

Whistler has given us the night — not 
the black, inky, meaningless void which 
has always stood for evil : not the darkness, 
the mere absence of light, the prophet had 
in mind when he said, '*And there shall 



Mbtstler 441 



be no night there" — not that. The pro- wiebt 
phet thought the night was objection- 
able, but we know that the continual 
glare of the sun would quickly destroy all 
animal or vegetable life. In fact, without 
the night there would be no animal or 
vegetable life, and no prophet would have 
existed to suggest the abolition of night 
as a betterment. In the night there are 
flowers that shed their finest perfume, 
lifting up their hearts in gladness, and all 
nature is renewed for the work of the 
coming day. We need the night for rest, 
for dreams, for forgetfulness. Whistler 
saw the night, this great transparent, 
dark-blue fold that tucks us in for one- 
half our time. The jaded, the weary, and 
the heavy-laden at last find peace — the 
day is done, the grateful night is here. 

Turner said you could not paint a picture 
and leave man out. Whistler very seldom 
leaves man out, although I believe there 
is one Nocturne wherein only the stars 
and the faint rim of the silver moon keep 
guard. But usually we see the dim sug- 
gestion of the bridge's arch, the ghostly 
steeples, lights lost in the enfolding fog, 
vague purple barges on the river, and 



442 



Xlttle Journeps 



mfgbt ships rocking solemnly in the offing — all 
strangely mellow with peace, and subtle 
thoughts of stillness, rest, dreams, and 
sleep. 



VII 



443 



THE critics have all shied their missiles 
at Whistler, and he has gathered 
up the most curious and placed them on 
exhibition in a catalogue entitled Etching 
and Dry Points. This document gives a 
list of fifty-one of his best known produc- 
tions, and beneath each item is a testi- 
monial or two from certain worthies who 
thought the thing rubbish and said so. 

If you want to see a copy of the cata- 
logue you can examine it in the ''treasure 
room" of most any of the big public 
libraries; or should you wish to own one, 
a chance collector in need of funds might 
be willing to disengage himself from a 
copy for some such trifle as twenty-five 
dollars or so. 

Whistler's book The Gentle Art contains 



**36tcbing 
an^ S)rie 
Ipoints'' 



444 



Xittle Journeps 



(Bentle 
Uxt" 



just one good thing, ' although the touch 
of genius is revealed in the title which is 
as follows: ''The Gentle Art of Making 
Enemies, as pleasingly exemplified in many 
instances wherein the serious ones of this 
earth, carefully exasperated, have been 
prettily spurred on to unseemliness and 
indiscretion, while overcome by an undue 
sense of right." ^ 

The dedication runs thus: "To the 
rare Few who early in life have rid them- 
selves of the Friendship of the Many, these 
pathetic papers are inscribed." 

The one excellent thing in the book is 
the "Ten O'Clock" lecture. It is a 
classic, revealing such a distinct literary 
style that one is quite sure its author could 
have evolved symphonies in words, as 
well as colour, had he chosen. However, 
this lecture is a sequence, leaping hot from 
the heart, and would not have been written 
had the author not been "carefully ex- 
asperated and prettily spurred on, while 
overcome by an undue sense of right." 
Let us all give thanks to the enemy who 



1 Fourth Edition. Published in London by William 
Heinemann and in New York by G. P. Putnam's 

Sons. 



TKHbistler 



445 



exasperated him. There is a great temp- 
tation to produce the lecture entire, but 
this would ■ hardly be in order so we 
still have to be content with a few scrapings 
from the palette : 

Listen! There never was an artistic period. 

There never was an Art-loving nation. 

In the beginning, men went forth each day 
— some to do battle, some to the chase ; others, 
again, to dig and to delve in the field — all 
that they might gain and Hve, or lose and die. 
Until there was found among them one, differ- 
ing from the rest, whose pursuits attracted 
him not, and so he stayed by the tents with 
the women, and traced strange devices with 
a burnt stick upon a gourd. 

This man, who took no joy in the way of 
his brethren — ^who cared not for conquest, 
and fretted in the field — this designer of 
quaint patterns — this deviser of the beauti- 
ful — who perceived in Nature about him cu- 
rious curvings, as faces are seen in the fire — 
this dreamer apart was the first artist. 

And when, from the field and afar, there 
came back the people, they took the gourd — 
and drank from out of it. 

And presently there came to this man 
another — and, in time, others — of like nature 
chosen by the Gods — and so they worked 



Ube 
S>e8igner 



446 



Xtttle Sourness 



H TWCW 

Class 



together; and soon they fashioned, from the 
moistened earth, forms resembHng the gourd. 
And with the power of creation, the heirloom 
of the artist, presently they went beyond the 
slovenly suggestion of Nature, and the first 
vase was born, in beautiful proportion. 



And the Amateur was unknown — and the 
Dilettante undreamed of. 

And history wrote on, and conquest ac- 
companied civilisation, and Art spread, or 
rather its products were carried by the victors 
among the vanquished from one country to 
another. And the customs of cultivation 
covered the face of the earth, so that all 
peoples continued to use what the artist 
alone produced. 

And centuries passed in this using, and the 
world was flooded with all that was beautiful, 
until there arose a new class, who discovered 
the cheap, and foresaw a fortune in the facture 
of the sham. 

Then sprang into existence the tawdry, 
the common, the gewgaw. 

The taste of the tradesman supplanted the 
science of the artist, and what was born of 
the million went back to them, and charmed 
them, for it was after their own heart; and 
the great and the small, the statesman and 
the slave, took to themselves the abomination 



Mbtstlet 



447 



that was tendered, and preferred it — and 
have Hved with it ever since. And the 
artist's occupation was gone, and the manu- 
facturer and the huckster took his place. 

And now the heroes filled from the jugs 
and drank from the bowls — with under- 
standing — noting the glare of their new 
bravery, and taking pride in its worth. 

And the people — this time — had much to 
say in the matter — and all were satisfied. 
And Birmingham and Manchester arose in 
might, and Art was relegated to the curiosity 
shop. 



IRaturc's 
]&Iements 



Nature contains the elements, in colour 
and form, of all pictures, as the keyboard 
contains the notes of all music. 



The artist is born to pick, and choose, and 
group with science these elements, that the 
result may be beautiful — as the musician 
gathers his notes, and forms his chords, until 
he bring forth from chaos glorious harmony. 

To say to the painter, that Nature is to be 
taken as she is, is to say to the player, that 
he may sit on the piano. 

That Nature is always right, is an asser- 
tion, artistically, as untrue, as it is one 
whose truth is universally taken for granted. 



448 



Xittle Sourness 



Wesivc to 
See 



Nature is very rarely right, to such an extent 
even, that it might almost be said that Na- 
ture is usually wrong: that is to say, the 
condition of things that shall bring about 
the perfection of harmony worthy a picture 
is rare, and not common at all. 



The sun blares, the wind blows from the 
east, the sky is bereft of cloud, and without, 
all is of iron. The windows of the Crystal 
Palace are seen from all points of London. 
The holiday-maker rejoices in the glorious 
day, and the painter turns aside to shut his 
eyes. 

How little this is understood, and how 
dutifully the casual in Nature is accepted 
as sublime, may be gathered from the un- 
limited admiration daily produced by a very 
foolish sunset. 

The dignity of the snow-capped mountain 
is lost in distinctness, but the joy of the 
tourist is to recognise the traveller on the 
top. The desire to see, for the sake of seeing, 
is, with the mass alone, the one to be grati- 
fied, hence the delight in detail. 

But when the evening mist clothes the 
riverside with poetry, as with a veil, and the 
poor buildings lose themselves in the dim 
sky, and the tall chimneys become campanili, 
and the warehouses are palaces in the night, 



XKIlbtstler 



449 



and the whole city hangs in the heavens, 
and fairy-land is before us — then the wayfarer 
hastens home; the workingman and the 
cultured one, the wise man and the one of 
pleasure, cease to understand, as they have 
ceased to see, and Nature, who for once, 
has sung in tune, sings her exquisite song to 
the artist alone, — her son and her master — 
her son in that he loves her, her master in 
that he knows her. 

To him her secrets are unfolded, to him 
her lessons have become gradually clear. He 
looks at the flower, not with the enlarging 
lens, that he may gather facts for the botanist, 
but with the light of the one who sees in her 
choice selection of brilliant tones and delicate 
tints, suggestions of infinite harmonies. 

He does not confine himself to purposeless 
copying, without thought, each blade of 
grass, as commended by the inconsequent, 
but in the long curve of the narrow leaf, 
corrected by the straight tall stem, he learns 
how grace is wedded to dignity, how strength 
enhances sweetness, that elegance shall be 
the result. 

In the citron wing of the pale butterfly, 
with its dainty spots of orange, he sees before 
him the stately halls of fair gold, with their 
slender saffron pillars and is taught how the 
delicate drawing high upon the walls shall 



Secrets 
TIlnfol&e& 



450 



Xtttle Journeys 



Brt 
Bppeav0 



be traced in tender tones of orpiment, and 
repeated by the base in notes of graver hue. 

In all that is dainty and lovable he finds 
hints for his own combinations, and thus is 
Nature ever his resource and always at his 
service, and to him is naught refused. 

Through his brain, as through the last 
alembic, is distilled the refined essence of 
that thought which began with the Gods, and 
which they left him to carry out. 

Set apart by them to complete their works, 
he produces that wondrous thing called the 
masterpiece, which surpasses in perfection all 
that they have contrived in what is called 
Nature; and the Gods stand by and marvel, 
and perceive how far away more beautiful 
is the Venus of Melos than was their own 
Eve. 

And now from their midst the Dilettante 
stalks abroad. The Amateur is loosed. The 
voice of the Esthete is heard in the land, and 
catastrophe is upon us. 

Where the artist is, there Art appears, and 
remains with him — loving and fruitful — 
turning never aside in moments of hope 
deferred — of insult — and of ribald misunder- 
standing; and when he dies she sadly takes 
her flight: though loitering yet in the land. 



Mblstler 



451 



from fond association, but refusing to be 
consoled. 

With the man, then, and not with the 
multitude, are her intimacies; and in the 
book of her life the names inscribed are few — 
scant, indeed, the list of those who have 
helped to write her story of love and beauty. 

From the sunny morning, when, with her 
glorious Greek relenting, she yielded up the 
secret of repeated line, as with his hand in 
hers, together they marked in marble, the 
measured rhyme of lovely limb and draperies 
flowing in unison, to the day when she dipped 
the Spaniard's brush in light and air, and 
made his people live within their frames, 
that all nobility and sweetness, and tender- 
ness, and magnificence should be theirs by 
right, ages had gone by, and few had been 
her choice. 



Cause to 
be /ftecrie 



Therefore have we cause to be merry! — 
and to cast away all care — resolved that all 
is well — as it ever was — and that it is not 
meet that we should be cried at, and urged 
to take measures. 

Enough have we endured of dulness! 
Surely are we weary of weeping, and our tears 
have been cozened from us falsely, for they 
have called us woe! when there was no grief 
— and where all is fair ! 



452 



Xittle Sourness 



trbe Stors 
Complete 



We have then but to wait — until, with 
the mark of the Gods upon him — there 
come among us again the chosen — who shall 
continue what has gone before. Satisfied 
that, even were he never to appear, the story 
of the beautiful is already complete — hewn 
in the marbles of the Parthenon, and broider- 
ed, with the birds, upon the fan of Hokusai, 
at the foot of Fusiyama. 



THE END 



Jl Selection from the 
Catalogue of 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 



Complete Catalogues sent 
on application 



LITTLE JOURNEYS 

By ELBERT HUBBARD 

Five Volumes. Illustrated. Each, $1.75 

Half Calf, Extra, $3.50 



i# To the Homes of Good Men and Great 

Contents : George Eliot, Thomas Carlyle, John 
Ruskin, W. E. Gladstone, J. M. W. Turner, Jona- 
than Swift, Victor Hugo, William Wordsworth, 
W, M. Thackeray, Charles Dickens, Oliver Gold- 
smith, William Shakespeare. 

2r To the Homes of American Authors 
{By various authors) 
Contents : Emerson, Bryant, Prescott, Lowell, 
Simms, Whitman, Hawthorne, Audubon, Irving, 
Longfellow, Everett, Bancroft. 

3j To the Homes of Famous Women 

Contents: Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Madame 
Guyon, Harriet Martineau, Charlotte Bronte, Chris- 
tina Rossetti, Rosa Bonheur, Madame de Stael, 
Elizabeth Fry, Mary Lamb, Jane Austen, Empress 
Josephine, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. 

4/ To the Homes of American Statesmen 

Contents : George Washington, Benjamin Frank- 
lin, Alexander Hamilton, Samuel Adams, John 
Hancock, John Quincy Adams, Thomas Jefferson, 
Daniel Webster, Henry Clay, John Jay, William 
H. Seward, Abraham Lincoln. 



S To the Homes of Eminent Painters 

Contents : Michael Angelo, Rembrandt, Rubens, 
Meissonier, Titian, Anthony Van Dyck, Fortuny, 
Ary Scheffer, Jean Frangois Millet, Joshua Rey- 
nolds, Landseer, Gustave Dor^, 

G. p. PUTNAM'S SONS 

New York London 



LITTLE JOURNEYS 

SEW SERIES 

By ELBERT HUBBARD 
With 12 Illustrations in Photogravure. 8% Each, $2.50 



L — Little Journeys 

to the Homes of English Authors 

Contents : Morris, Browning, Tennyson, Macaulay, 
Byron, Addison, Burns, Milton, Johnson, Southey, 
Coleridge, Disraeli, 



/// — Little Journeys 

to the Homes of Famous Musicians 

Contents: Wagner, Paganini, Chopin, Mozart, 
Bach, Mendelssohn, Liszt, Beethoven, Handel, 
Verdi, Schumann, Brahms. 



There is a certain flavor about Mr. Hubbard's *' Little Jour- 
neys " that appeals to a large circle of readers. As he himself 
explains, — he does not say, " Go to, I will write a Little Journey," 
and then strive to construct one out of his inner consciousness. 
He has visited the homes and haunts of the people of whom he 
writes, and betrays the man and his surroundings as he was in 
hfe. 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

New York London 



By ELBERT HUBBARD 



No Enemy (But Himself) 

With 28 full-page illustrations 
Crown octavo. $f.60 

" Most interesting, instructive, and entertaining. This is 
high praise, but the book deserves it." — N. Y. Herald. 

** The book is well written, and its interest grows with 
the progress of the story. The book is indeed interesting, 
and will bear reading many times.'* — Boston Herald. 



Time and Chance 

A Romance and a History. Being a Story of 
the Life of John Brown. With two por- 
traits. Crown octavo. $1.50 

"I have read Hubbard's book, 'Time and Chance.' I 
read it at a gulp, with tears and heart throbbings. I knew 
John Brown, lived with him, tramped with him, fought with 
him, and had a price placed upon my head for being mixed 
up with him at Harper's Ferry. Hubbard gives the truest 
portrait of old Osawatomie Brown that I ever read. The 
book rings true — sternly, awfully, vividly true, and the 
writer must have been marching with the soul of the man in 
order to have penned it."— (Col.) Richard J. HinTon. 



G. P. 

NEW YORK 



PUTNAM'S SONS 



LONDON 



ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON 

^d Iviprt'ssion. 

BESIDE Still Waters 

Uniform with the '♦Upton Letters" 

A record of the sentiments, the changing opinions, and the 
quiet course of life of a young man whom an unexpected legacy 
has freed from the necessity of leading an active life in the world 
of affairs. The book aims to win men back to the joys of peace- 
ful work, and simplicity, and friendship, and quiet helpfulness. 
It is, too, a protest against the rule or tyranny of convention, the 
appetite for luxury, power, excitement and strong sensation. 

gth Impression. 



Earlier Books by Mr. Benson 

From a Colleqe Window 

" Mr. Benson has written nothing equal to this mellow and 
full-flavored book. From cover to cover it is packed with per- 
sonality ; from phrase to phrase it reveals a thoroughly sincere 
and unaffected effort of self-expression ; full-orbed and four- 
square, it is a piece of true and simple literature." 

London Chronicle. 

roth Impression. 

The Upton letters 

"A piece of real literature of the highest order, beautiful 
and fragrant. To review the book adequately is impossible. . . . 
It is in truth a precious thing." — Week's Survey. 

" A book that we have read and reread if only for the sake 
of its delicious flavor. There has been nothing so good of its 
kind since the Etchingham Letters. The letters are beautiful, 
quiet, and wise, dealing with deep things in a dignified way." 

Christian Register, 

Crown 8vo, Each, $1.25 Net. 



Q. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

New York London 



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